Post-Easter Post

Originally Posted Monday, April 21, 2013

A quiet Easter of drinking expensive wines and cooking dinner for my mother.  We began the day with breakfast at a diner.  They were almost all closed, but we managed to find one with a great big collection of hillbillies and rednecks in floral tops and polyester trousers, cheap shorts with black socks and black Florsheim loafers.  We had ham and eggs in honor of the day.  They brought the biggest hams I'd ever seen for $6.99.  There was at least a two year supply of salt in each. 

I didn't realize how quiet Easter really is.  Q just wanted to go see girls dressed up in their Easter best.  He said that they love Easter, love to be admired, so we went out in search of such.  No luck.  We ended up at the local retirement bar where Q had an affair with a chubby Persian Catholic server with ample bosoms and a certain eagerness, a student at the local state college.  He threw her over, however, for a bartender, the mother of a special three year old boy.  He said she had kind eyes.  I said that it was because she was genetically simple.  I think that started him off.  After that, he became fairly combative.  I was a bad man, he said.  I didn't appreciate.   

I never liked Easter, not even as a kid.  I've said it before.  It is a pastel holiday.  It requires a reverence and uniform of which I am not fond.  It is more religious than Christmas which has Kris Kringle as a buffer, etc.  The Easter Bunny is mute and offers little resistance to the unrelenting piousness of this day.  Even heathens take their children to church on Easter.  I don't know whether it is fear or angst that drives them to it, but they do it.  They go in droves. 

My mother brought over Deviled Eggs to add to dinner.  I thought it funny somehow.  She didn't get it at first.  Sean poured her the last of an expensive Pinot Noir.  She liked it.  The next glass was an expensive Classico.  "Oh, I can tell the difference," she said, insinuating that this was surely a cheaper wine.  I tried to explain the roughness of the Classico no matter how expensive.  It is a rough wine compared to a Pinot, which is so delicate and girly.  It is like going from a buttery Chardonnay to Retsina.  It is the difference between an expensive scotch and an expensive grappa.  My lesson made little impression on her. 

"I don't really know anything about wine," she said to Q. 

I made a terrible dinner.  Whole Foods was the only store open and their selections of meat were pitiful on Easter.  I chose as best I could, but a grilled London broil is really just awful.  My mother, though, thought it good and fine indeed.  "He's really a good cook," she told Q.  "Everything he makes is good."  Nobody, I thought, may ever say anything like that about me again in my life.  I have, I know, lost some of the old allure for the nascent world. 

Mother packed off after dinner and Q finished up the wine as I moved to a digestif scotch. Music.  Conversation.  And end of things. 

Monday breaks beautifully and I must don my factory foreman personality once more.  Q prepares for his flight home.  No hookers, no blow.  We didn't even get around to doing facials and watching movies.  Such are the constraints of time.  All we can hope for is a resurrection.