My Dad eats like a king. Every day. ALL day. Courtesy of my wife.
This morning, I watched my father sit down at the kitchen table and I continued to watch as my wife served him his five-star breakfast.
She served me next.
"What's this?" I asked her. What was on my plate wasn't exactly cottage cheese and lettuce, but it wasn't far from it.
"Talk to your doctor if you have a complaint," she told me. I guess she treats me like a king, too, but in a different way. A way that includes less food.
I'm a pretty healthy guy, but my doctor wants me to bring my cholesterol down a peg or two. He gave me the choice to either do it with a pill or with my diet. I first tried the pill, but stopped when it began to make the left side of my face feel numb.
This morning, I watched my father sit down at the kitchen table and I continued to watch as my wife served him his five-star breakfast.
She served me next.
"What's this?" I asked her. What was on my plate wasn't exactly cottage cheese and lettuce, but it wasn't far from it.
"Talk to your doctor if you have a complaint," she told me. I guess she treats me like a king, too, but in a different way. A way that includes less food.
I'm a pretty healthy guy, but my doctor wants me to bring my cholesterol down a peg or two. He gave me the choice to either do it with a pill or with my diet. I first tried the pill, but stopped when it began to make the left side of my face feel numb.
"Are you buying cheap bacon?" I heard my Dad say.
I looked up and noticed that his distaste for the bacon hadn't slowed his eating of it.
"This bacon you served me isn't any good," he told my wife between chomp, chomp, chomps. "It's getting stuck between my teeth."
His teeth, let me remind you, are 96-years-old. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the bacon that was the problem.
He picked up one of the strips between his thumb and forefinger. It was crisped to perfection. He inspected it like he was some kind of food scientist.
"It's not the same," was his professional determination.
"The same as what?" I asked him.
"The same as before."
"Before what?"
"Before!" he said, his old man arms flying all around. "Before! The one you used to buy before."
I was just giving him a hard time. My wife knew that, but she still arched an eyebrow in my direction.
I looked up and noticed that his distaste for the bacon hadn't slowed his eating of it.
"This bacon you served me isn't any good," he told my wife between chomp, chomp, chomps. "It's getting stuck between my teeth."
His teeth, let me remind you, are 96-years-old. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the bacon that was the problem.
He picked up one of the strips between his thumb and forefinger. It was crisped to perfection. He inspected it like he was some kind of food scientist.
"It's not the same," was his professional determination.
"The same as what?" I asked him.
"The same as before."
"Before what?"
"Before!" he said, his old man arms flying all around. "Before! The one you used to buy before."
I was just giving him a hard time. My wife knew that, but she still arched an eyebrow in my direction.
"It's the same bacon," she tried telling my father.
"No, it's not," he said.
"Yes, it is," she said.
"No, it's not," he told her.
"Yes, it is," she told him. "It's the same brand, the same cut, the same everything."
"It's not."
"Dad," she said, getting flustered, "it's the same bacon you've been eating for the last five years."
I wanted to add the words "FOR FREE," but decided against it. I don't know why, but it's always the people who pay the least who complain the most.
"No, it's not," he said.
"Yes, it is," she said.
"No, it's not," he told her.
"Yes, it is," she told him. "It's the same brand, the same cut, the same everything."
"It's not."
"Dad," she said, getting flustered, "it's the same bacon you've been eating for the last five years."
I wanted to add the words "FOR FREE," but decided against it. I don't know why, but it's always the people who pay the least who complain the most.
My Dad told her, "I don't think so. I know it's different bacon. It doesn't taste the same. Besides, it's TOUGH. You must have bought some cheap bacon."
My wife is usually very patient with my father, but he has given her halo quite a workout these last few years. She opened the kitchen trashcan, reached in, and pulled out the packaging the bacon came in. She showed it to my father.
"See?" she told him. "It's the same kind of bacon you ate yesterday."
My Dad took the packaging and looked at it.
"See?" she told him. "It's the same kind of bacon you ate yesterday."
My Dad took the packaging and looked at it.
"Just because you're showing me this wrapper, that doesn't mean this is the bacon I'm eating. You could have served the good bacon to your husband, and given me the cheap kind."
He pointed to my plate. It was suspiciously empty of bacon.
"Dad," she pleaded, "it's the same bacon. Why would I lie to you?"
My Dad's eyes started to bulge out. It does that when he's at a loss for something to say. He looked from my wife, to me, and back to my wife.
"Are you calling my wife a liar, Dad?" I asked him, giving my wife a wink.
"Ahh... hmm... welllll..."
He let out a long sigh.
"Well, I don't like it," he said, finally. "Don't serve it to me anymore."
"Okay, Dad," my wife told him, giving in to his nonsense.
He pointed to my plate. It was suspiciously empty of bacon.
"Dad," she pleaded, "it's the same bacon. Why would I lie to you?"
My Dad's eyes started to bulge out. It does that when he's at a loss for something to say. He looked from my wife, to me, and back to my wife.
"Are you calling my wife a liar, Dad?" I asked him, giving my wife a wink.
"Ahh... hmm... welllll..."
He let out a long sigh.
"Well, I don't like it," he said, finally. "Don't serve it to me anymore."
"Okay, Dad," my wife told him, giving in to his nonsense.
What would I have done? I would have gone out and bought the cheapest, ugliest road kill bacon I could find and served it to him...
...but not my wife. She's a saint.
She must have felt guilty, because later that day she went out and bought my father the best, most expensive $au$age my money could buy. If Donald Trump eats sausage, this is the kind of sausage Donald Trump eats.
...but not my wife. She's a saint.
She must have felt guilty, because later that day she went out and bought my father the best, most expensive $au$age my money could buy. If Donald Trump eats sausage, this is the kind of sausage Donald Trump eats.
The next morning my wife made my father a breakfast sandwich just the way he likes. She made it with the sausage she bought and served it to him using our finest china and fanciest silverware. It was a breakfast sandwich Wolfgang Puck could only dream of making.
"Sausage?" my father griped between bites. "Why didn't you use the bacon you gave me yesterday? It was pretty good."
My wife looked for me, but I was already leaving the kitchen.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
No comments:
Post a Comment