The Parents

Casey’s parents visited us over the Christmas holidays. We kept our plate full during their stay - full enough, in fact, that I gained three pounds, a stubborn trio that followed me into the New Year. I forced Casey to get on the scale after the parents departed, and found solace in knowing he’d packed on a few extra pounds himself. Make no mistake, the culprit was Dad Miller’s nightly theatre of appetizers: crackers, cheese, wasabi, and Franks chile with lime sauce. Tasty, but lethal.

One of the things I can say about the parents is that they’re willing to try just about anything. Would you guys like to go to a sweaty, New Years Eve swing dance peppered with nubile twenty-somethings? Sure. How about we head up to icy Estes Park and play Balderdash in a cabin without a television? Of course! Would you care to visit the Tajikistan tearoom in Boulder and sip tea that smells like rainforest detritus? Why not?

I’m reminded of the time the parents visited us over Christmas in New Zealand, back in the salad days. We’d taken a whale watching tour off the coast of Kaikoura run by Maoris. We have no photos to document the event, but the images of that day are permanently seared onto my retina.

The tour boat’s seating configuration included metal seats that were placed in face-forward rows, as if watching a show off the bow. Casey and I promptly stationed ourselves here, in the boat’s safe space, where we hoped our stomachs would remain stable amidst the whip-whip-whippity winds of the notorious Roaring Forties.

Already I could feel the Coriolis force churning its own reverse-toilet flush pattern in my stomach. Meanwhile, the parents planted themselves at the bow, in what we’ll call the heave/vomit seats (now I fully understand what sailors meant by “heave-ho!”). Here, the probability of projectile vomiting your Cornish pasty into the Pacific was high, but the parents were not deterred. We kept our eyes peeled for the majestic sperm whale and its impending breach, but the real show was on the boat as folks everywhere turned winter white and pulled small paper bags from their seatbacks. My sense of smell is keen, and Casey and I came scarily close to a sympathy vomit. Up in front, however, the parents sat erect, eyes toward the sea, heads bobbing up and down in rhythm with the waves. While the parents beamed, Casey and I peered toward the horizon trying to block out the sounds and scents that haunt my dreams: the crackle of a newly opened white paper bag.

Hats off to the parents, for their iron stomachs and indomitable spirits (and we’re not talking about the vodka).

Some photos to mark the event: yummy sauces at Raj Mahal, shabu-shabu at our place, Celestial Seasonings tour, Tajikistan tearoom in Boulder.