Kids. Dammit. These days. They give you hell about everything that ever was. But my son’s in his mid-twenties, my daughter is old enough to buy cigarettes if anyone still smoked. They could move out if it was that bad. You would think. Today, it’s bones. They give my wife and I hell for having eaten bones.
I can still see it in my mind, my son says. You guys standing around the stove eating Buffalo Wings on Sunday afternoon.
C’mon, my daughter says. Everybody ate them in those days.
We called them hot wings where we live, I assert. And if you’re trying to make me feel bad, I feel worse about you remembering how little we ate at the table when you guys were kids… Sunday was game day, though, I add.
My wife says nothing.
It’s like she doesn’t remember our third date: I wasn’t big on wings before I met her. It was her. She insisted on hot wings. And then, later on, on every game day for over half a decade.
It’s just so… my son says, pausing. Undignified.
It is now, my daughter agrees. But back then, things were different.
They were great with blue cheese, I offer.
See? He’d totally eat them still – if the optics weren’t so bad!
No, I said. I get how it cheapens the animal to not differentiate from the meat… Their organs and bones should be respected.
They didn’t know then what we knew now, my daughter says.
Say, I tell them. Do you guys know what a wishbone was?
Dad! That’s fucking gross!
I still have nightmares about Mimi putting that whole turkey down in the center of the table, my son says. And it’s always raw.
No one ever served you raw meat, I say.
I know, but in the dream!
I look once more at my wife. She’s flipping through a stack of mail pretending not to hear. She did this with football too: when we got back together after five years of being apart, she totally got me into the NFL. I never gave a crap before. Then, she basically abandoned it shortly after my daughter was born, when my son turned five. Now, I’m watching the games alone. I mean, who cares, right? But no one I know watches football now. It feels like I’m on my own in this ancient barbarian enjoyment. And even football is supposed to be phased out in five years, based on the agreement between the NFL and Congress. Though a lot of pundits believe it would never stand if it went to the Supreme Court.
Would you eat a wing right now? my daughter asks.
No! I say.
What about a rib? my son asks. A t-bone steak?
A rib would be hard to say no to. How do you know what a t-bone is?
Ugh! Hard to say no to? Dad!
But probably not! I say. I know how it’s viewed now. It’s not decent manners.
It’s about more than manners, my son says.
Daddy, my daughter tells me. Don’t ever admit this anywhere but with us.
I wouldn’t, I say. I’m just being honest with my family! Honey, tell them, I say to my wife.
Honey, I tell her. A little help?
But she says nothing. I think she’s drying a glass or something. Loading a dish maybe.
I’m feeling pretty awful actually. Obsolete. Like a sit-com dad. A little fat, if not a lot. Clumsy – mentally and physically.
Later that night, my wife gets in bed just after me. She kisses me on the head, turns out the light. After a while, she says: I’d have a hard time saying no to baby back ribs too.
It’s my turn now not to say anything. Or, anyway, all say I is: Thanks…
Then, I lie awake a few minutes longer than I might normally. But it’s never long before I fall asleep. I’ve always been gifted like that. Lucky even, one might say.
