I don't mean potato-loving in a love-that-dares-not-speaks-its-name kind of way. I'm just saying my Dad loves potatoes. To eat them, if I still haven't made my point clear.
In fact, my Dad likes potatoes so much you would think he was Irish. However, unlike the Irish, my Dad does eat other foods. He just likes potatoes. A lot.
Since I brought the Irish up, I've always wondered--and maybe one of you can tell me--how did the great Irish famine end up killing so many Irish men and women? I mean, was potatoes ALL they ate? Didn't they have any other kind of food? I can only imagine the conversations Christian missionaries must have had with them.
The missionaries: "Why don't you guys eat other foods?"
The Irish: "What can we say? We like potatoes."
"But what about corn?"
"We don't like the way corn comes back out in your poop. That's gross."
"How about peas?"
"Too mushy."
"There's always cauliflower."
"It looks like a giant white brain. We're not cannibals."
"Broccoli?"
"Too green."
"Carrots?"
"There's no snowmen in Ireland, so we have no use for carrots."
"Pumpkins? They make good pies."
"Gourds really creep us out."
"Cucumbers are good.
"We tried cucumbers once. We didn't see our women-folk for years."
My point is, there had to be something else to eat in Ireland besides potatoes. It's an island, for Christ's sake. An island is surrounded by water. You know what's in water? That's right, fish. Are you telling me they couldn't go fishing?
"Only Protestants go out in boats to fish," the Irish Catholics probably argued.
"Only Catholics go out to fish in boats," the Irish Protestants probably countered.
So... fishing was out.
In my case, the potato doesn't fall far from the tree. I love potatoes, too. Especially mashed potatoes. My youngest daughter also loves potatoes. She loves them so much I used to call her Spuds. A nickname she liked, by the way, although I must admit she was only in the lower single digits at the time. Unfortunately, my always correct wife had to stick her two-cents in and correctly pointed out that "Spuds" wasn't really a proper name for a little girl. Or anyone else, for that matter.
At least, according to my wife.
I once gave my brother's first-born daughter the nickname "Peanut Head." When she was born, her head was exactly the shape of a peanut. During birth, my sister-in-law must have taken a break when my niece's head was only half out.
"Hey, Peanut Head," I would loving coo to her in her crib. And she would laugh and giggle and smile. I don't think my brother appreciated it, though. Again, my wife had to stick her two-cents in and point out that thing about what makes a proper nickname for a little girl and blah, blah, blah. But it wasn't my fault my niece had a peanut-shaped head. And it's not like anybody who saw her wasn't going to tell everybody later about the peanut-headed baby they just saw. But I stopped calling her that anyway.
In case you're wondering, she grew up to have a perfectly-shaped head.
I bring the humble potato up because one recent morning I found myself having to cook breakfast for my Dad and grandson. My wife was off giving a seminar on nicknames and the proper naming of them thereof or some such nonsense.
My grandson's only a toddler, but he isn't picky. My Dad's an adult, and...
"Where's your wife?" my Dad asked when he saw me cooking.
"She had an appointment," I told him, purposely keeping it vague and simple. He only hears every third word, and the ones he hears, he doesn't understand.
"She's not cooking breakfast?"
See what I mean?
"No," I said, keeping it down to one word, one syllable. What I wanted to say was, "Do you see her cooking? No, you only see me, don't you?" But, since certain people are always assuring me that God will one day pay me back (and those people would be the ones NOT taking care of my Dad), I don't.
My Dad makes himself a cup of hot tea. He's learned that if he waits for me to make it for him, then he's going to be waiting a long time for me to do something I'm not going to do.
Do I sound like a jerk?
Yeah, I probably do.
The thing is, we're both adults, we're both capable... but I'm the one in the middle of cooking breakfast. I don't have the time or desire to wait on my father hand and foot.
In the time it takes him to make his tea, I'm able to finish cooking. As my Dad sits himself down at the table, I'm placing my grandson's breakfast in front of him. My grandson gets served first because my Dad and I can serve ourselves, my grandson can't. It's that simple.
Plus, he's so darn cute.
"Oh, boy! Tater Tots!" he says. The smallest things make him happy. My Dad, not so much. Speaking of whom...
"What?" my Dad says... "Tater Tots?" ...waking up... "I don't like Tater Tots." ...sounding unhappy... "They're no good."
See what I mean?
My grandson, meanwhile, starts to eye his Tater Tots suspiciously.
"You like Tater Tots," I tell my Dad. "And you like Tater Tots, too," I tell my grandson.
To illustrate my point, I snatch up one of my grandson's Tots from his plate and pop it in my mouth and chew enthusiastically.
"See?" I say, still chewing. "They're good."
"Hey!" my grandson said. He probably wanted to say, "What do you think you're doing, old man, eating one of my Tots?" but doesn't, because he's probably also been told that God will pay him back. He's barely learning his numbers, but he does understand the mathematical concept of one-less-for-me.
Meanwhile, my Dad is still trying to convince me that he doesn't like Tater Tots. He's 95-years-old. I've known him for over half of his life. And I've NEVER heard him say he doesn't like tater Tots.
"You like potatoes, don't you?" I ask him like F. Lee Bailey on steroids.
"Yeah."
"Well, Tater Tots are made from potatoes." I rest my case.
"I don't care, I don't like Tater Tots."
He likes any kind of potato. Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, fried potatoes. He likes french fries, home fries, and steak fries. He likes potato soup, potato casseroul, and potatoes au grauten. If he could, he'd hollow them out and wear them as shoes. That's how much he likes potatoes. And he's telling me now, after 96 years, that he doesn't like Tater Tots?
"You like hash browns, don't you?"
"I love hash browns," he admits.
"Well, they're just like hash browns, except they're rolled into little balls."
"I don't care. There's something about them I don't like. Maybe it's the way they look."
"It's not how a food looks that's important, it's how it tastes."
"It doesn't matter how they taste, because I'm not going to eat them."
"I'm going to serve you some anyway."
"You can serve me all you want, I'm still not going to eat them."
Maybe this kind of crap works with my wife, but my Dad doesn't know who he's fooling with. In a battle of wills, my Dad is sadly outgunned. If he thinks he's going to act like a spoiled 2-year-old, he's got another thing coming.
I look at my grandson. He's ignoring us, and happily chowing down on his Tater Tots.
You know why I ended up not serving my father any Tater Tots?
Because life's too short.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
No comments:
Post a Comment