My Parents

Being at the cottage, isolated and without TV in the country with my parents, evokes all the fear and self-loathing of David Sedaris’ autobiographical essays, or Jonathan Franzen’s “The Corrections.” Here are two brief but telling examples:

I noticed, sitting on a bathroom shelf a small sign of preparedness: my mom had brought a sewing kit. Contained in a small, clear plastic box were about a dozen colours of thread, some safety pins, a button, measuring tape and a tiny pair of scissors. It looked a right kit, prepared for any clothal failure. But one thing seemed to be missing: a sewing needle. I was so amazed by this fact, that I looked through the whole kit just to make sure, but it remained missing. So could someone please offer a possible use for a sewing kit without the tools required to sew?

Unless you are grilling a steak with fries, my dad is impossible to cook for. The things he likes are simple, he likes down home soul foods, and so cooking for him might seem easy. But there are several wildcards, the main one being that Murray and I are vegetarian. Next is the list of no-go foods (only out of preference, not dietary in any way): no cilantro, no eggplant, no cucumber, no garlic, no cream sauce, no ricotta, and the list continues. A single misstep could ellicit the reaction (that Murray got this week): “Its good but I don’t like it.”

Parents. They just don’t understand. Either that or Murray and I have become serious food snobs. Its probably a little bit of both.

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