Odd Orchid #3
“Have you held her hand yet?”
“Have you kissed Margot yet?”
“On the lips?”
I was peppering the poor guy with question after question. He was in his early to mid twenties, and had been dating my older cousin Margot for a little over a year. Tall and built like an ox, he had that typical Italian look that my family adored. But nuh uh, nope, he wasn't getting a free pass with me. I was her twelve year-old cousin. He had to answer to me.
“If you were a dinosaur, what would you be?”
“Is Dwight Gooden your favorite baseball player?”
“What's your favorite car?”
The scene was probably amusing. A scrawny little twelve year-old kid grilling this linebacker of a man about what his intentions were with someone who was closer to being called a woman than a girl. In the back of my mind, I knew my family already welcomed him. He had a nice job, he seemed to make Margot happy. He said all the right things to my grandparents and quickly won their approval. But not me. No sir. We were at war.
“Are you afraid of sharks?”
“What's your favorite bubble gum?”
“Would He-Man beat Spiderman in a fight?”
Each round of questions revealed a little bit more insight into who this guy was. For instance, can you believe he thought that Bret Saberhagen was better than Dwight Gooden? We all knew back then that Dwight Gooden was the best baseball player to ever come step foot into New York City in the past fifty years. Stupid midwestern hoosier. And he claimed to not be afraid of sharks. Sharks eat everything: people, fish, boats. Watch Jaws again, loser.
Before dinner time, we all took our respective positions on the annual Christmas spiedini assembly line. I was the stage two coater that year, moving up from the egg'er.
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4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into strips
1 cup of freshly grated parmesan cheese
4 eggs, beaten
3 cups of Italian seasoned bread crumbs
Freshly chopped parsely
Combine bread crumbs, parmesan cheese, and parsely in a large baking dish. Dredge chicken strips in dry mix, dip into eggs, then dredge in dry mix again. Grill or broil until chicken is fully cooked. (Optional: pound chicken into very thin pieces and then proceed to coat chicken normally. Roll the coated pieces of chicken up tightly, and fully pierce with an olive oil soaked skewer before cooking.)
----------
As Margot started pounding out the chicken, that Saberhagen-loving, Shark-punching, Slobbery-kissing tool stepped in next to me to take over as egg'er. See, you don't just do that. You don't just step into my old job without a fight. That assembly line has always been a well oiled machine, greased to perfection. Each and every year, the entire family would pitch in to help cook our family's most famous dish, Chicken Spiedini. It was our own little tradition. And he, the outsider, thought he could just step in and assume one of the dish's most important responsibilities? What gall.
When he dipped the first piece of chicken into the eggs, he smiled and whispered in my ear, “Isaac, we both know that Spiderman, despite his ability to shoot webs across long distances, would get his butt kicked by He-man.” He was so right, and he knew it.
I laughed a bit to myself, and looked up at him. “You get a free pass this year, buddy.”
“Have you kissed Margot yet?”
“On the lips?”
I was peppering the poor guy with question after question. He was in his early to mid twenties, and had been dating my older cousin Margot for a little over a year. Tall and built like an ox, he had that typical Italian look that my family adored. But nuh uh, nope, he wasn't getting a free pass with me. I was her twelve year-old cousin. He had to answer to me.
“If you were a dinosaur, what would you be?”
“Is Dwight Gooden your favorite baseball player?”
“What's your favorite car?”
The scene was probably amusing. A scrawny little twelve year-old kid grilling this linebacker of a man about what his intentions were with someone who was closer to being called a woman than a girl. In the back of my mind, I knew my family already welcomed him. He had a nice job, he seemed to make Margot happy. He said all the right things to my grandparents and quickly won their approval. But not me. No sir. We were at war.
“Are you afraid of sharks?”
“What's your favorite bubble gum?”
“Would He-Man beat Spiderman in a fight?”
Each round of questions revealed a little bit more insight into who this guy was. For instance, can you believe he thought that Bret Saberhagen was better than Dwight Gooden? We all knew back then that Dwight Gooden was the best baseball player to ever come step foot into New York City in the past fifty years. Stupid midwestern hoosier. And he claimed to not be afraid of sharks. Sharks eat everything: people, fish, boats. Watch Jaws again, loser.
Before dinner time, we all took our respective positions on the annual Christmas spiedini assembly line. I was the stage two coater that year, moving up from the egg'er.
----------
4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into strips
1 cup of freshly grated parmesan cheese
4 eggs, beaten
3 cups of Italian seasoned bread crumbs
Freshly chopped parsely
Combine bread crumbs, parmesan cheese, and parsely in a large baking dish. Dredge chicken strips in dry mix, dip into eggs, then dredge in dry mix again. Grill or broil until chicken is fully cooked. (Optional: pound chicken into very thin pieces and then proceed to coat chicken normally. Roll the coated pieces of chicken up tightly, and fully pierce with an olive oil soaked skewer before cooking.)
----------
As Margot started pounding out the chicken, that Saberhagen-loving, Shark-punching, Slobbery-kissing tool stepped in next to me to take over as egg'er. See, you don't just do that. You don't just step into my old job without a fight. That assembly line has always been a well oiled machine, greased to perfection. Each and every year, the entire family would pitch in to help cook our family's most famous dish, Chicken Spiedini. It was our own little tradition. And he, the outsider, thought he could just step in and assume one of the dish's most important responsibilities? What gall.
When he dipped the first piece of chicken into the eggs, he smiled and whispered in my ear, “Isaac, we both know that Spiderman, despite his ability to shoot webs across long distances, would get his butt kicked by He-man.” He was so right, and he knew it.
I laughed a bit to myself, and looked up at him. “You get a free pass this year, buddy.”
posted by Odd Orchid at 2:48 PM
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