January, 2015

Diplomacy: The Art Of Telling Someone To Go To Hell And Giving Them Directions—And Having Them Be Glad To Make The Trip

Sit up straight.
Take small bites.
Elbows off the table.
Unless you're allergic, try everything—at least three bites.
Say please and thank you.
Use your napkin.
Try not to burp; if you do, say 'excuse me.'
Compliment the cook!
Don't talk with your mouth full.
Help set the table.
Help wash the dishes.
If you make fart noises with your hand and armpit, I will abandon you in the forest to be reared by wolves.

When you send your kid out into the big, bad world for a sleepover or just dinner at a friend's house, you do so with a certain amount of trepidation. Will the broccoli and cauliflower and Limburger cheese casserole be greeted with "Pee-euu" (or worse)? Will the best-best-best friends end up hating each other over choice of TV shows? Is there an older sibling who torments the younger one—and, by extension, the sibling's friends? Will sleeping in a strange house, strange bed, generate nightmares? Or will they stay up all night, giggling and squealing and making sleep impossible for the rest of the household?

I remember being on VBB—Very Best Behavior—when I spent the night at my friend's and hoped Lexi did the same. I actually liked doing dishes after dinner—at someone else's house, it didn't feel like a chore. Fortunately, the moms never pointed out things like, "Cassie doesn't make nasty faces over beans and hot dogs." I didn't need a rep as a goody-goody. Besides, I like beans and hot dogs.

So while I'm pretty sure Lexi would put her best foot forward, there were always niggling fears in the back of my mind. Birthday slumber party for the youngest granddaughter of the parish priest? Those fears jumped to the top of the list.

Fr. Parker and his wife, Beverly, are as alike as chalk and cheese. They have been married since his seminary days in Scotland; she trucked with him from Scotland to Canada, then they worked their way down the coast until they hit Virginia and Bev threatened to plant him in the ground, head first, if he even hinted at moving again. I think it had to do with an entire box of her art supplies going AWOL in their last move from Pittsburgh. She's a commercial artist, specializing in illos for children's books, so her beef was stronger than most people.

Bev is also a good, if sometimes inventive, cook. She would have been the one to create chicken mole—chocolate and chicken isn't something you'd normally put together. Ducky and I have had some great meals at the Parkers—and we've had a few where Bev laughed at her folly and promised never to make that dish again.

I dropped Lexi off after school and agreed to pick her up no earlier than noon the next day but somewhere before the end of the school year. They had quite the night planned—dinner, then several hours of ice skating, back to the house for an animated movie fest. Jim and Bev knew darn well there's no slumber at a slumber party; why fight it? No stuffy rules; their house was chosen because they have the room. They would never have a Nightmare on Elm Street festival, but showing Mulan, Lilo and Stitch and Ice Age was a good chance to promote loyalty to friends and family without being preachy.

When Ducky and I arrived on Saturday, the kids were in the back yard playing Freeze Tag (kind of redundant, given the temperature). Fr. Parker wanted a private confab (the wind and head jerk toward the living room were dead giveaways), so Lexi's, "Awww, ten more minutes, pleeeeeeeease?" could be granted.

"You have quite the politician on your hands," Jim said with no preamble.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Ducky muttered.

"Janet—" (Their youngest grandchild, the birthday girl).) "—asked for chicken nuggest and mac and cheese for her birthday dinner. Bev talked er out of that, and into homemade Chinese."

Ducky and I exchanged glances; how bad could Chinese food be?

"Fortunately she chose chicken instead of, oh, squid or octopus…"

Since we were alone in the living room, I was safe to make a face. I'm pretty pedestrian in my tastes—and I don't like squishy stuff.

"But the other ingredients… the mushrooms were a bit more exotic than the usual white buttons you see on a pizza. Oyster, morel and the like. Bean sprouts. Alfalfa. Miniature corn—the kids loved those—"

I shrugged. "Sounds pretty safe to me."

"Ah, but she did this as a stir fry and the sauce… it wasn't a plum sauce, not a teriyaki, there was a bit of a smoky flavor—" He laughed an gave up. "I can't come close. Most of the kids were pretty blunt, if quiet. They scraped off the sauce with their fork or knife or just gave up and ate a lot of rice and salad. But Lexi—" He shook his head and laughed. "She took a bite, froze for a split second, and then swallowed. Then she took a couple of bites of rice to cleanse her palate. Bite of the stir fry, two more of rice. She took a second serving of rice to make it all come out even, but, by God, she ate it all. Bev saw this and immediately offered her seconds. Lexi didn't bat an eye, said it was delicious, 'But that birthday cake is so pretty, I really want to save room for dessert.' Even I wouldn't call it delicious, and I love my wife. She certainly took the Sunday School class discussion over jet black lies, tattletale gray, white lies and fibs to heart. I can just see her running for Congress!"

Ducky shuddered. "Bite your tongue."