I am burning the potatoes.
Yes, that’s right. I’m cooking. Say nothing, dear reader. I do actually cook.
Not often, of course, living with Mother and Daddy as I do, and at the mercy of Kenya, the cook, who works each and every night.
Seems Kenya, however, took to her bed last week, the flu knocking her down so hard, she couldn’t even keep water down. So … we are all pitching in.
Last night, it was Mother and her famous hot pasta tuna casserole, a dish so horrible that, as a kid, I used to feign vomiting just to get out of eating it. (I never feigned anything, so you have to understand … it’s just that bad.) The woman doesn’t know how to make anything else.
Two nights ago, it was Daddy and his grilled ribs with macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, not a vegetable to be found. (Thankfully, we had some frozen brussel sprouts in the freezer.)
This evening, I am going for a more balanced route – pork chops, baked potatoes, apple sauce, and a side of asparagus.
Pork, I know, is Bernie’s favorite, so I’m having a bit of a think about whether to ask him to join us. I mean, now that Carson is safely out of the picture, I’m sure my folks would want me to be happy, and it would make me happy to have him over for dinner.
I can hear Mother and Daddy milling around in the sitting room, neither knowing how to handle cocktail hour without the beloved Kenya, so I join them.
“Okay, okay, have a seat,” I say to them. “It’s pork chops, potatoes, asparagus tonight, so we’ll have a pinot grigio at the table. In the meantime, what can I get for you.”
“Oh dear,” Mother says, flopping herself onto the pink pillowed chase lounge. “You are saving us once again from the throes of a dull happy hour, aren’t you? I will take a vodka tonic, easy on the tonic. And for your father …”
“Her father can speak for himself, thank you very much,” Daddy says. He inhales deeply and takes in the view of his two favorite women in the world. “I will have the same … but NOT because she said so, but because that is what I actually desire at this time.”
“Coming right up … and I’ll even use the same mixer,” I tell them. I splash a hint of tonic in with the vodka, not even a full shot. They are both better off inebriated for what I’m about to request.
I pour the mixture, such as it is, over two glasses of ice and deliver each to a wildly receptive audience.
Daddy turns in my direction. “And what are you sipping on this evening, my dear?”
I nod in his direction. “Whiskey sour, I think. You know it was Bernie who turned me on to those.”
I could see my mother wince from the other side of the room. “Oh Lord, whiskey sours … so much sugar. Not good for a man his age, you know.”
“Well, he hasn’t always been ‘his age’ Mother,” I tell her. I stroll across the room, stirring straw in my mouth, as if I’ve just had an epiphany. “You know … I’d love to see if he might be available to join us tonight … I mean, we have plenty of pork, and it’d be nice to have more than just the three of us dining. Do you mind if I text him?”
As Daddy drains his glass, he stands and heads toward the beverage cart. “Of course,” he says. “The more the merrier.”
His answer leaves me speechless. I turn toward Mother.
“Well, I’ve never been a fan, but I will say,” she says, gliding across the room, empty glass in hand, “he’s a step up from the body snatcher you’ve been dating.”
Much as I’d like to respond and put her in her place about Carson, I opt to take the win.
“I’ll text him,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”
“Tell him to bring another bottle,” Daddy says over his shoulder.
–
Two hours and ten pork chops later, Bernie and I are on the moonlit porch with a full, fresh bottle of wine. The river, lapping as always at its banks, is particularly placid tonight. We are on the swing – the famous swing where Mother and Daddy first kissed.
“I don’t know what Daddy was thinking,” I tell him. “They were well into the vodka before dinner. I’m not at all surprised they’re fast asleep already.”
“No worries,” he says as he pours. “More for us.”
“Yes,” I say. “You know Wanda has asked me to take over her job. I’m a little surprised, since my campaign didn’t win and all, but … well, I’m thinking about it.”
“You’d give up the social work?” he asks.
“Well,” I tell him. “I’m giving it thought.”
Bernie smiles and looks toward the river as he sips. “You’re surprising me.”
“How so?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“You’re really bouncing back from that treacherous ass that could have very well ruined your life.”
I had to laugh. Bernie has never been much of a comedian. It’s rare that I laugh out loud at anything he says, but that was, without question, hysterical.
“I know, right? Think about it. You might have found my left foot on the shoreline down there. … Oh my god.”
I recoiled.
“I told you about the bloody parts we found in his house, yes?”
“Yes, you did,” he says. “No need to revisit.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling the evening air. It was still my favorite smell in the whole wide world.
“So what should I do?” I ask.
Bernie grins. “Do it.”
So I guess now I know how he feels.