Yesterday, my wife and I went out and bought some good steaks. The weather's been kind of nasty lately, with high winds and heavy dust, but the gods have given us a respite, so we thought we'd take advantage of it and barbecue.
When I say "we," what I actually mean is "me." Not that I'm complaining. My wife is in charge of all the cooking that goes on inside of the house, and tells me that I'm in charge of all the cooking that goes on outside of the house. I do what I'm told. It's easier to barbecue, than to spend the next few days hearing about why I didn't.
My wife loves my Dad. He's cranky, cantankerous, and curmudgeonly... but he grows on you. So she really goes all out when she serves him.
"You won't have him forever," she tells me, as she looks over the cooked beef.
"Showing preference to your father-in-law over your husband goes against the Bible," I tell her back. I'm kidding. Sort of.
My wife? She doesn't buy it. She gives him the best piece of meat.
My Dad appreciates it, and shows his appreciation by really chowing down. Chomp, chomp, chomp! He keeps telling us how good it is. And, you know...
It is pretty good. Even with my inferior piece.
The next morning my wife and I are in the kitchen drinking our first, but not our last, cup of coffee. We're both sharing the newspaper. We can do that when we beat my Dad to it in the morning. Otherwise he hogs it until he's done.
My Dad walks in shaking his head. Shake, shake, shake! It's not a good sign when he starts shaking his head.
"You know," he tells us, " I was sick all night."
"Really, Dad?" I say. Man, that Marmaduke is one funny dog.
"I've had the runs since yesterday. I didn't sleep all night because I had to keep going to the bathroom."
"That's a shame." Ha! Dilbert. He gets me every time.
"Yeah, it started last night... after I ate the steak."
"Huh? Wha...?" I sputtered, my attention suddenly being taken away from Beetle Baily's latest high jinks.
"It was that steak you gave me. It was bad."
Bad?
"Yeah, it was bad. It made me sick."
"Dad," my wife tried to explain to him, "we all ate the same steak."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"The piece you got couldn't have been bad."
"The piece I got was bad."
"It couldn't have been."
"Well, it was."
"Could it have been something else?"
"Nope. It was the steak."
"Are you sure, Dad?" I ask him, and he turns to me.
"Of course I'm sure. It was the steak. The steak made me sick. I've been sick all night. I couldn't sleep."
It couldn't have been the steak. We all ate steak, and my wife and I are perfectly healthy. My wife suggests to him that perhaps it was the lettuce or something else in the salad, but she's just reaching for straws because we ate that too.
"I think you're still getting over your cold," I told him, "and your tummy wasn't ready for something that heavy."
By heavy, I mean he ate like a pig.
"It wasn't my tummy I was having problems with," he informs me. "It was a little further down. No, it was the steak you barbecued."
I didn't say anything, because I didn't know what else to say. We all ate the same food, and only one of us got diarrhea.* I was sure I was right, that it was a result of whatever residue was hanging on from his brush with the great beyond, but when my dad gets something stuck in his head, there's no unsticking it. His stubbornness is the immovable object, and there is no irresistible force.
My Dad went on complaining about the poison food we fed him the day before.
"Blab, blab, blab! Smack, smack, smack! Blab, blab some more. Click, click click! Smack!"
We just sat there and listened. There was nothing else we could do, but wait for him to run out of steam.
"Ahhh... hmm...," my Dad continued. Cough, cough, cough! "Steak this. Steak that. Blab, blab, blab!"
Next time I'll fry him some baloney.
He likes baloney.
*Do you know the only thing worse than having diarrhea? Trying to have it quietly while your wife's in the next room.
Raising My Father
@JimDuchene
jimduchene.blogspot.com
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
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