Greetings from Wisconsin! I flew home last Wednesday, December first. I was to surprise my Grandmother and my Aunt Debbie with my Christmastime presence. My Grandmother would be no problem—I think she stays, wonderfully, loveably, blissfully clueless most of the time. My Aunt Debbie, on the other hand!—oh-ho-ho! She reads mlphillips.com every morning; she is, perhaps, my only family member to read this site so regularly.
This made things interesting. I tend to tell mlphillips about all of the things that have happened during my day. This was easier said than done, this secret keeping!
I pre-composed the December first and December second entries for Miles to put in place so that I couldn't inadvertently mention something that would give me away before we surprised Debbie on the third. You know, something like, "Dad sure does look funny in the morning..." or whatnot. After their run, Miles was to implement entries of his own imagination throughout the weekend. Unfortunately, Miles must classify mlphillips posting into the same category as taking out the garbage.
I've had a nice time since coming home. My dad is coping well with my low-meat lifestyle. He is taking it much better than I gave him credit for. True, the first night he fell to his knees before me, tears streaming from his eyes, sobbing "WHY!? WHY!?" Since then, the mealtime sobbing has ceased, and has been replaced by the occasional sniffle. I am confident that by the time I leave, he will be in complete denial that I am of his genes. He's such a tender soul!
Mom is letting me cook for her! Brave soul! She even drinks my coffee! Oh!—A mother's love!
The first morning, I was served a cup of dad's coffee.
Dad's coffee always smells good. It has saturated the kitchen with Java-goodness for as long as I've been alive.
I stumbled out to the kitchen that first morning...drowsy and COLD. I went to the coffeemaker, grabbing the cinnamon for that extra-special touch. Dad, trying to ignore the fact that just 12 hours ago I made a meat-announcement that pierced his heart and shredded is soul, heartily responded, "Have a cup of mine!" I thought a shiver of premonition materialized, but then it was so cold, and I couldn't reject him again. If I won't eat his beef, by gosh I'll drink a cup of his coffee!
Remember how I said awhile back that my dad drinks strong, black, Norwegian-style coffee? Well I really should have remembered that and sipped with care.
The scalding sludge hit my taste buds, scorning them for their delicate nature. It traveled down my throat, raising the gates of Hades from which it was brewed. He stood there, watching me, awaiting my approval. That good-daughter gene kicked in, and my parody of a smile seemed to please him, my involuntary whimper passing for a murmur of content.
I haven't partaken of his crude oil since. The good-daughter gene has limitations.
