|the dreaded dish|
My hands are gripping the steering wheel too tightly and my father has pointed out three driving errors in less than six blocks. "You speed up just to slow down" has always been one of my favorites and "you shouldn't have to brake here" and "there is a faster way than this." Dad, my goal is to avoid traffic lights, I hate traffic lights. "Yes, but you had two stop signs." Dad, I was able to drive right through those stop signs, no waiting. "Well, maybe this time." I sigh and now I realize why my mother sighed so much. "Do you want to drive?" The words come out of my mouth carefully and I have never been more serious.
My father orders vegetable primavera and he draws an imaginary line down the middle of the dish. Half will be eaten and the rest will be boxed for a future meal. Do you ever think about taking a forkful from that other side and upsetting the symmetry of your meal division plan? Sometimes I think the guy is wound way too tight but perhaps I am dreading the ride home. And besides, that deplorable trait of his I just mentioned, I've got more than a touch myself.
I love this man intensely and fervently although he makes me crazy. This has been the case with all the men I have loved. If they created no inspiration or headache in my daily routine they would be useless to me. Not the best plan, but there you have it. On the way home he reminds me about the saltiness of the dressing and the pooled butter (he shudders) in the bottom of the bread basket. I embraced both of those delights and I dipped my crusts in that same butter and hoped he did not see. We try to be perfect for our parents, we think they deserve that much.