Evenings at Home

It is post-holidays, the guest have left, the decorations stored away, the gift cards sorted. The sudden nightfall still takes me by surprise, but this evening, my house is in order. I pull down a bottle of wine for my wife. I have concerns because my kids are both shivering, my daughter sweating while she does so. It is more than just the winter; she is having a delayed reaction to a medical procedure the day before. We don't all take well to the laughing gas. Not much leaves a parent more powerless than watching a child shake with cold sweats. My heart melts, but there is Tylenol, so I fumble 1000mg over to her, my own hands anxious, and stand nearby to watch while I rinse the rice for dinner.

My son, at twelve, saunters by to tell me that he does not like basmati rice, which is from India, and questions why there is nothing good to eat. I attest that this is jasmine rice, from Asia.

"Look here, see the bag?" I grasp to address the granularity of rice varieties with a sixth grader, hoping the range of my knowledge on the subject, spanning from Uncle Ben's up to fried, will suffice. "Jasmine. There's the elephant on the bag." I consider that my son's response may marginalize a billion people's staple carbohydrate either in China or India. But to him, it's just a lever to assert authority over his budding person hood. His likes, his own self. He shrugs. "Elephants don't eat rice."

My daughter, the Tylenol having kicked in, approaches and asks me what color the dress is she shows me on her cell phone. "Blue and gold," I answer, a foggy recollection forming of a controversy from years past. YouTube has decided it was good for her to learn how truth is subjective. Quickly, she then asks if I believe in evolution or that God created the universe in seven days. My rice is boiling over, that thin skin sliding from the bubbles onto the range top. My garlic burned long ago, and I pour a bit of orange juice into the skillet, adding the chicken, wondering if white wine wouldn't serve better. "Seven days is symbolic, lots of ancient cultures held meaning in numbers. Eight, seven, three. Evolution is a theory based on the scientific method, on observations we can reproduce and agree on. We all have Neanderthal DNA in us." What am I even saying? She is staring at me, a half smile on her face. She saves me, "Dad, I think evolution is just a theory, but it's the best one we have."

The toaster oven pings and, as I pull the warmed pita out, a memory resurfaces of my son saying that I combine too many cultures into each dish. "Just do Asian or just do Spanish. Don't do both!" Now I pause, Does pita go with rice? It does. But I recall that the chicken was pre-seasoned with a tomatilla salsa. Mexican! I stare at the assembled condiments. I quietly put the feta back in the fridge. Bridge too far. Chili crisp stays on the counter.

By now, the wine has breathed as much as a fourteen dollar bottle ever can, but the wife has not yet returned, so I give it a swirl, pour myself a glass, and set the bottle down. The kids eat haphazardly, blobs of grease and rice stuck to their faces and hair and forming a full moon of debris on the table around their plates. My daughter's voracious appetite attests to her emergent recovery. I move to the sink and call for plates, forks, glasses; a king demanding homage. I lord over the remnants, a triage ritual between the garbage can, tomorrow's lunch, and quick bites of half eaten food. My tax. My empire - the galley run between the stove and trash.

Wipe the table, stow the leftovers, stack the dishwasher (I do it best). Suddenly, it's just me and the dog, who has a ball in her mouth and half eyes, her seductive request to play. I reach to get it but at the last moment, she turns her head and moves away. You need to move your body more, human! Your pants barely fit anymore. I do not want resolutions from my dog. I finally get the ball from her but my throw lands it under the couch. She whimpers and looks at me, Why would you do this? I can't reach under there!

My wife arrives, she's already eaten. I fetch a glass and pour her a drink. It's quiet. She smiles at me. I know that look. It means she is getting ready to tell me about her day. It's a part of our ritual and my mind eases into focus. I have to listen intently because I often do not understand half of what she is telling me, it's over my head, so many people and programs and industry jargon I am not familiar with. Eyeing her wine as she sips, I wonder if I could pour just a little bit more for myself without it seeming like I drank a half bottle alone. The bottle looks full, but there is that divot on the bottom, they say to provide structural integrity but it's really just a way to provide less wine in a container that appears to be the same from the consumer's perspective.

"Can you believe she said that?"

"No. I literally cannot believe it," I reply, snapping back into the moment. I lost the thread before it even started. She continues on, satisfied with the endorsement. I forget the wine and try to assemble names and offices, nodding as I try to follow the emotional unpacking.

It's cold and dark outside, but in my heart, I am filled with warmth. My humble life, my little family. My daughter calls from upstairs, "Daddy, the cat threw up!" As I rise and excuse myself for cleaning duty, the dog picks up another ball, her eyes asking, Is it time to play?