I pretty much let my wife buy what she wants when it comes to the kitchen, because she's the one who cooks. My wife's a good cook. Not only that, she's a great cook. But she might not be so great if I stuck my nose in her business every time she wanted to buy a toothpick.
The prime rib's not cheap. In fact, it's pretty expensive. I do the math: It costs almost enough for me to have steak and lobster at my favorite steakhouse. I bet I could even wash it all down with several Tecate's besides.
To make a long story short, my wife cooks it, and it's a five-star dinner. It always is. Except for that one time that I swore I'd never mention. (Oops!)
Even my Dad is impressed.
"Boy," he says, "I'm telling you, this meat is good!"
He's sitting in front of the TV, watching his favorite baseball team, the Cleveland Indians, and my wife has her feast served in front of him like he's an Arab Sheik. Sheik Yerbooty. He goes at it like he hasn't eaten in days.
I'll say one thing about my Dad, he's never met a meal he didn't like. Back when my Mom was still alive, if my Dad was sick, he'd still want his three meals, plus snacks.
"You're sick," Mom would tell him. "Why don't you give your stomach a break?"
"Hey," my Dad would answer, his logic irrefutable, "it's not my stomach's fault I'm sick."
I took a bite into my prime rib. Man, it was good. Moist. Tender. Full of flavor. Just like my wife.
"Sweetie," I told her, "this prime rib is good."
She gives me her aw, shucks smile.
"Yeah," my Dad repeats.
He eats some more. Then:
"Look, I can cut it with a fork," he says, cutting it with a fork.
But all good things must come to an end. Just the way Newton's first law of physics is for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, my Dad's first law of compliments is for every compliment there is an equal and opposite kick in your hindquarters.
He eats some more, and then it begins.
Chomp, chomp, chomp!
"I don't even mind the fat."
Fat?
My wife says nothing, but I know she's just taken one to the chops.
"Dad," I tell him, "meat needs fat to give it flavor.
Chew, chew, chew!
"Well, this meat sure does have a lot of flavor," he says.
I don't know how to take what he just said, because I don't know how he meant it.
Munch, munch, munch!
"Oh, yeah, I don't mind the fat at all."
One thing I've noticed during all of his magnanimosity is that my Dad sure hasn't stopped eating. He hasn't even slowed down. I've also noticed that he sure didn't offer to help pay for the prime rib when we were at Costco. And I couldn't help but notice that there was no thank you for my wife for cooking for him, serving him, and treating him like a king.
My wife usually has my Dad all set up in front of the TV so he can eat and watch his game. Which game? My Dad doesn't care, just as long as it's a game. A Lamborghini Veneo-type TV tray sits in front of him. Today, my Dad gets lucky. The Cleveland Indians are playing, and he's watching it on the biggest TV in our house. The one in the great room. He just sits in his (my) favorite chair, while my wife waits on him hand and foot. She serves him his food, his tea, his salad, his bread, and all the trimmings. Later, she'll even send our little grandson, who we watch on occasion, to take him a Mud Pie for dessert.
All I hear from him is his chomping and chewing and smacking and coughing and mumbling and munching as he eats and watches the game.
It's not that my Dad is ungrateful or purposely hurtful. It's just that his idea of being gracious is by saying something ungracious.
One time, when my Mom was still alive, my wife and I treated them to a nice cruise to Ensenada, Mexico. One of the things you could do when the ship docked, was you could ride horses along the beach. That sounded very nice, so that's what we did. My Mom and Dad were younger back then, so they thought it was a good idea, too. There was a whole group of us, and somewhere along the beach, my Dad stopped to take in the beauty of the ocean and the white sand. He looked pretty natural sitting on his steed with the waves crashing behind him.
"You know," he told me, grandly, "I've been to beaches prettier than this one."
"Honey!" my Mom told him angrily.
"What?" my Dad said. "I'm just saying it's pretty."
And that's exactly what he was doing. Only the way my Dad does it is by telling you how something you've given him or done for him doesn't compare to something else he's seen or had or done.
My wife knows this, but I still feel bad for her.
"Sweetheart," I say softly, giving her a gentle nod of my head. "It's good."
She gives me a smile.
"I know, hon," she says.
My Dad is still chomping away, oblivious to the little nuances of human interaction.
"Yeah, boy... this is good."
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
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