Dr. S. must be met to be appreciated. Some time ago he suffered a brain tumor. The treatment has left him cancer free, but frailer and a little less quick on the uptake. He's reached the stage in his life where he shuffles a little when he walks and he mutters more than I imagine he did in his youth. He's kind and sharp witted, but if you saw him on the street, cigar hanging off his lip, hunting gear donned, grimmace affixed, you might draw the opposite conclusion.
"I'm gonna count my pills" he replied. The stairs were something of a slight labor for him, so I stood at the top and made sure he navigated them cleanly. I didn't really think much about his pill comment, I'd heard a number of things while I was there I didn't quite understand. I assumed it was a southern thing.
Shortly thereafter, Mrs. S. decended the stairs ready to prepare the breakfast. She's been beaten to it by her daughter.
I should tell you that, much like me, Chris likes to have as many modifiers as possible when she's describing her food. For example, she doesn't have cocoa. She has Mexican, spiced, hot chocolate, with a dash of extra cinamon and fine grating of nutmeg. She doesn't have corn chips, she has Trader Joe's, Lime and Chili seasoned, corn, tortilla chips with your choice of spicy, black bean dip with a sour cream and chive drizzle or a hearty corn and peach salsa with a fresh cilantro dressing. I'm just the same way. and some of my most fun times with Chris have been in the kitchen letting our imaginations wander in and out of the pantry.
However, while Chris and I find this to be a good deal of fun, even a source of excitement, her mother does not. She finds it to be a source of frustration. "Look mother, look. Look what we've made for breakfast."
Mrs. S. has a permenant smile on her face, the height of grace. "What is it dear?"
"It's Brian's grandmother's home canned pears, marinated in apple juice, with cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and apple jack brandy, grilled and served over a cinnamon crumpet and all of it's drizzled with a reduction of the canning fluid to which we added orange zest, and a bit of milk to make it creamy."
Mrs. S. smile did not fade, but her right hand went up to her temple which she rubbed vigoriously. "Oh?"
"Yeah! Here mother, smell the marinading sauce." Chris came at her mother's face with the mason jar. "Smell it mother. Smell this."
Mrs. S. tried to dodge. She ducked a little and weaved a little and backed up. "Oh, I... no. It's ok Christina, I don't... need to... I can smell from here."
"No! Just smell it! Smell it mother. Smell it. It's yummy! Smell it!"
"Oh, alright, Christina, I'll... let me do it... give me the jar, Christina." She took a shrort whiff. "Very nice." She handed it back to her daughter who was disappointed her mother wasn't a bit more delighted.
"Mother, are you ready for yours?"
"Oh, no dear, I'll just have a little milk..."
"YOU GOTTA TRY IT! YOU GOTTA!"
"Alright, dear, just a little... bit." Mrs. S. was rubbing both temples now. "No, now, not so much. That's too much, Chris. Too much, I won't be able to taste any of it because you've put too much other... too many other flavors..."
Then Mrs. S. looked at a clock and said, "Oh, the Redskins are on. I've got to go see the Redskins. We'll all watch the Skins. It's tradition. Kick off is in just a few minutes, I've got to go get the tv on." And she vanished.
Chris and I finished our breakfast in the kitchen. Then decided we'd go watch the game with her mother. We walked down the hall, and when we did, we saw Dr. S. at the dining room table. He had spread out the towel on one side of the table. On top of the towel he had the largest collection of pharmacy bottles I've ever seen. He was mixing and matching and sorting and what not.
"Dad?" Chris asked, "what are you doing?"
"I'm countin' my pills."
We watched for a second or two and then we were drawn into the dining room to get a closer look. It seems that Dr. S. is on a lot of medication. he takes 9 prescription pills, 14 viatamin pills, and 4 herbal remedies every single morning! And that doesn't count the pills he takes at bed time.
He's devised a system. He keeps his empty pill bottles and he makes morning kits. he fills them with all the medication he'll need in the morning, so he can just swallow one bottle of pills instead of fishing one out of every jar. It's very clever, but also very, very disturbing to watch.
Chris decided to help him. She emptied three bottles on the table and quickly determined that each of them had a very different collection of pills. "Aren't these supposed to be the same?"
"Well, yeah" her dad said.
"What system did you use exactly to fill these bottles?"
"Well, you lose count when you're doing this."
"This one has three green ones. How many green ones are you supposed to take every day?"
"One."
"Oh."
For the next hour the three of us played pharmasist. Once, in the middle of our pharmacutical frenzy, Mrs. S. came to tell us the score. "You've missed the kickoff" she advised. "The Skins are already down. It's six to..." She trailed off.
"Oh" she said when she regained her speech. "Brian's counting your pills." Her smile and grace never waivered. "Well, yes. We're all counting the pills, I see." She rubbed her temple again and disappeared.
The next morning we went there. I was there with Chris and her mom. The ladies both had on furs. The other people on our tour were either 1) tall and from New England, 2) short and from Japan, or 3) the tour guide who tolds us she "looks much younger than her actual age" in a soft, southern accent that made it difficult for me to argue with her even though I disagreed.
The tour guide was wonderful. She knew the answers to all our questions. Either that or she was very, very good at making things up and sounding convincing. Either way, I'll always repeat some of the things I learned from her as if they are true.
For example, Thomas Jefferson was quite the gourmet. He sent one of his slaves to France to learn the art of cooking from a French chef. The slave brought back the following delicacies, for which TJ has taken the credit for introducing to the United States: waffles, macaroni and cheese (Mrs. S. says she will only eat it if we call it "pasta e formaggio." I say she's never had Katrina's), and ice cream.
I only knew he was president.
I must also say that the tourguide delighted me by addressing the lives of the slaves at Monticello and Jefferson's illegitimate children, a source of controversy. She was diplomatic about it, surely, but she addressed it none the less.
When we were again back in Richmond we decided to go to dinner. We went to a Cuban restaurant, where Chris ordered Asian food.
Posted at 1:57 a.m.
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