Dear Memere

I thought of you today.  I had steak and green beans for lunch — fresh green beans.  Do you remember when you used to make me cube steak with green beans, mashed potatoes and that gravy powder for lunch?  Those were the days when I slept over after Pepere died.  I was 7.  The scent of the green beans and steak heating in the microwave today brought me right back to you.  We would sit at your table in the kitchen, and I would scarf food and ask you questions, and you would answer me in that curt way.  You know — answering me with the Iron Hand of Memere, kind of like that time Dick asked, “What are these?” when you put a plate of brownies in front of him, and you answered, “They’re good!” and gave him a look.  He didn’t ask any more questions, but I was not so easily dissuaded.

You never ate as much as me.

Sometimes I wonder what you would think of all this gluten nonsense.  It’s not really nonsense, but it can feel like it, particularly when I’m hungry and I can’t find something to eat, and people are looking at me like I’m purposely being difficult.  Somehow, I know you’d adapt.  Either that, or you’d forget and try to serve me bread, and then I’d remind you and you’d say, “M’oh tad zee!”  I don’t even know what that means.

Your birthday is coming up.  My birthday passed.  How about we celebrate by you sending me some divine inspiration on how to can?  I’m not into saving cooked chicken for later (like the kind we found in your kitchen cupboards), but I wouldn’t mind learning the art of making grape jelly.  There are some blackberry bushes in the park across the way — I bet that would turn out some awesome preserves.

Lots of love,

your little cochon

What Really Happened to Mary Magdalene?

I called my mother on Thursday night.  She just lost her mother, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.  She was more than okay, it turns out; she was drunk.  She was having a grand old time with my father, her sister, and her sister’s husband.  Now, that’s fine.  I was just checking in, and as I had a migraine, I wasn’t looking for a long conversation.  We hung up fairly quickly, and I took some sleeping pills and went to bed.

I never heard my mother’s other phone call.

Mom called Seth at 11:00 p.m. that same night.  “What’s a Holy See?” she asked, as though they were in the middle of a conversation already.  You can do that when you’re drunk.

“Um… a ho-lee-see?  One word?”  Seth was confused, and rightly so.

“A Holy See!  S-E-E,” my mom said, “We’re on the other line with the Pope and he’s not picking up and we don’t know what a Holy See is.”

Ah, yes.  My mother had drunk dialed the Pope.  The official Pope.  You know, the guy with the big hat who doesn’t believe in birth control.

“You’re… on hold with the Pope?  The real Pope?” Seth asked.

“Yes, we have some questions for him,” Mom answered.  Of course.  It’s the most natural thing in the world to call the Pope with questions when you’re drunk.  Don’t you do that?

“Oh,” Seth said, “Um… let me look this up online.  The Holy See is the jurisdiction of the Pope, kind of like Vatican City.  You know, I don’t think the Pope speaks English.”

“Are you sure?” My mom said, “The Italian operator spoke English, and she put us right through, and now we’re just waiting for him to pick up.”

“Well, the Pope is German, so he probably speaks Italian and German.  I don’t know about English, though,” Seth said, “And he probably doesn’t field his own phone calls.  Especially since it’s 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning over there.”

“Oh.  Well his phone number was online,” my mom said, “Why wouldn’t he answer the phone?  It was online!”  Then she shouted to the others in the room, “Hey guys!  It’s 5 a.m. over there!”  In the background, the others jeered.  Then Mom came back.  “Okay, well I better go.  Thanks for your help!”

“No problem,” Seth said, and they hung up.

I don’t know what’s more funny: the fact that my mom drunk dialed the Pope, or that her second choice for getting questions answered was Seth.  At least she’s comfortable talking to him about anything — Seth, I mean, not the Pope.