My mom is Florence Nightengale on methamphetamines.
My dad, Mr. Wonderful, just did a brief stint in the hospital for a little unexpected maintenance on his ticker. From what his doctor highlighted on his custom diagram of death, Mr. Wonderful is real lucky. He dodged a bullet, but he will never dodge my mother.
The woman we call “the Captain” just ain’t having any premature death out of him. She’s got plenty of honey-do lists in the can, and he better not think about shuffling on into the afterlife without her permission—or by her own doing.
The Captain and I always check in first thing in the morning. She’s up and full tilt by 4 A.M., we chat around 6:15.
She asks me if Jeffrey slept through the night. I laugh, and change the subject.
She spends the next fifteen minutes itemizing the most unbelievable list of completed errands and tasks. I can’t do in a week what the Captain does between the God-awful hours of four and six. If I didn’t know her better, I’d blame hardcore street narcotics.
This week, due to Mr. Wonderful’s health crisis, the Captain is on overdrive cooking heart healthy meals. Yesterday she dazzled him with a culinary carousel of flavor in the form of “the other white meat.” Mr. Wonderful prefers his swine in the form of bacon, laying atop lard fried eggs, poised on a bed of jelly, peanut butter AND butter.
You can imagine the Captain’s sweet taste of victory when her cholesterol-loving mate complimented her pork in a fanfare of praise, “Well, it doesn’t taste like cardboard.”
This morning she fired out a couple dozen fat free banana nut muffins, killing the fat by subbing applesauce for oil. A moister muffin has never be known, Mr. Wonderful is going to sing her praises. I just hope their rekindled culinary union doesn’t lead to sex; that makes me puke in my mouth a little.
Three times was plenty, mom and dad. Three healthy kids, call it a night.
I’m just hoping that the Captain can sustain her latest obsession, and that Mr. Wonderful can climb out of his lunch meat fantasy long enough to see her heart healthy cooking as the labor of love that it is. As I said, she’s not letting him die on her watch anytime soon, unless she takes him out of the game.
I figure, when she’s had enough of him, she’ll throw a little antifreeze in his heart smart lentil soup. He might survive that attempt; how he hates her lentil soup.
He’d probably get past the poison in any of the dishes the Captain peppers with flax seed.
He’d survive death by salsa. He’s dodged that bullet in the past.
I’d say parents have a love/hate relationship with low-fat cooking. My mom loves to be the food boss of him; my dad hates to admit that coronary plaque is his kryptonite. We’re all just hoping the diagram of death helps him say bye-bye bacon, hello-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o broiled rubber chicken on a whole wheat wrap. He better pretend to like whatever she puts on his plate and compliment her accordingly.
He may have dodged the widow maker, but he’ll never survive the Captain.