Archive
11/17/08 - (1)
Two Toasts
Yesterday afternoon, A sixty-degree blue-and-white-marbled-sky Sunday, I visited my father, where he lies in eternal earth, Then picked up my mother, at her house, So we could share a few hours together, at dinner.
As the two of us drove to the country club, I said, "I just visited Dad, a little while ago. Of course, I told him I was taking you out, for supper, And he seemed very pleased." The gleam in her eye told me she, too, seemed pleased.
For a change, my mother didn't need fifteen minutes Of conflicted, vacillating decision-making, To arrive at a provisionally definitive pick From the minefield menu too rich with options. She settled right into the previous Sunday night's choice
(The club's three most legendary specialties): Chicken-broth matzo-ball soup; A half-pound hamburger with lettuce and tomatoes, Accompanied by her favorite condiment, pickle relish; And a side of the fabled, secret-recipe creamed spinach.
My creature-of-habit selection didn't even require my ordering. Waiter John knew I'd have the Gulfport Salad (A heap of chopped iceberg, lobster, crabmeat, and shrimp That I douse with a cruet-worth of cocktail sauce). He gathered our menus, poured the Beaujolais, and left. As is my Sunday-night custom, I lifted my wineglass And, when my mother followed suit, Touched it to hers, saying "L'chaim — to your good health." "And to yours," she replied, smiling. Then I offered her the basket of hot cheese-bagel slices.
But as she reached for a warm morsel, Her shaking hand knocked over the water glass to her right, Splashing a cascade across the tablecloth, Onto my sportscoat, my trousers. I jumped back, But not in time to avoid the blast of the breaking dam.
So startled was my mother, It took her a few seconds to realize what had happened, But once she did, her apologies wouldn't stop. "Oh, I've never done anything so stupid, not in my entire life, Not ever! Not even when I was a little girl! I remember."
"Mom, it's all right. It could have been worse." "I don't know how." "Well, it could have been the wine instead of the water. Don't worry. Everyone's spilled something. We'll just move to another table. The place is empty."
Once we were resettled, I raised my wineglass again. "Let's start over. This deserves another toast. L'chaim — to your good health." "And to yours." As we left, she said, "Next time you visit Dad, Ask him if he remembers me ever spilling. He'll tell you no."
11/17/08 - (1)
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