as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
RaisingDad
by Jim and Henry Duchene
Molly's Muffins
“it would have been nice”
My wife is not only beautiful but she’s also very generous. More generous than I am, that’s for sure.
We were at Molly’s Cafe this morning and my wife saw a young gentleman in a wheelchair. He was missing a leg.
“Do you see that man?” she asked me.
“No,” I said.
I told her no, not because I didn’t see him, but because I knew saying yes would cost me money.
My wife wasn’t fooled.
“Your father was in the military,” she said, chastising me with a sharp elbow to the ribs. She was disgusted by my financial thriftiness. Getting up, she walked over to the young man.
“Thank you for your service,” she told him, her eyes moist with tears. “I’d be honored to pay for your food.”
“I was in a car accident,” the young man told her.
He must have seen her embarrassment because he quickly added, “But you can still pay for my food.”
My wife told me it was a long walk back to our table.
“Now you know why I don’t do any good deeds,” I told her. I didn’t laugh because, man, her elbows hurt.
She's right, though. She usually is. My father was in the service. It would have been nice if someone had bought him a meal when he was heading home from the war. All he had was a bus ticket and fifty cents in his pocket.
Oh, and yellow skin.
He had been stationed in the Philippines and had caught a nasty case of malaria when his discharge papers came through. As soon as he was well enough to be kicked out, he was sent on his way, yellow skin and all. “Don’t let the door hit’cha where the good Lord split’cha,” the Army told him. Maybe they do things differently these days. Judging by the number of homeless veterans there are, maybe not.
I show my appreciation for his service as a soldier and a father by performing the occasional good deed for him and then not complaining when those good deeds go wrong. That’s why I bought muffins on our way out of the cafe. He likes muffins, especially Molly’s. They’re even better than the food, and the food is excellent. I bought a variety, two of which were bran. They came in a clear plastic container that held exactly six.
"Hungry?” I asked him as I walked into the house. "I‘ve got muffins."
“Molly’s?” he asked.
“Molly’s” I answered.
"Ooooweee," he squealed.
He was so excited he even got up from his favorite chair and forgot all about whatever baseball game he was sleeping through. I put the container down on the kitchen counter and went to get a glass of milk.
"You want some?" I asked.
"You bet," he answered.
So I got two glasses, took a gallon out of the refrigerator, and poured the milk. I’m following Fran Drescher's anti-white diet, so I added some chocolate syrup to my milk. That changed the color. Problem solved. Meanwhile, my father sauntered over to the container and opened it up.
"There's two bran muffins in there," I told him, because he’s always complaining his photon torpedoes won’t fire, if you Star Trek fans get my drift.
He doesn't say anything. What he does is...
He begins TOUCHING the muffins. ALL of them. He presses down on one, then presses down on another. Testing their sponginess, I reckon.
I didn't say anything, because, well, I was flabbergasted. I don't know why he was fondling the muffins. Maybe he was deciding which muffin to eat by its ability to spring back to its natural roundness.
I placed his glass of milk in front of him.
"Which one do you want, son?" he asked me, still squeezing the Charmin.
"I bought them for you, pop," I told him after a pause. "Go to town."
"Oh boy," he said, and dug in.
My wife walked into the kitchen right then, a pastry-craving sparkle in her eyes.
"You want a muffin?” my father asked her.
I shook my head to her. My father didn't see me. He was too busy eating.
"No… thanks?” she said, making a statement sound like a question.
“More for me,” he said.
My wife looked at me, the sparkle in her eyes changing to curiosity, but she took my hint. Being married as long as we have, she gets the little nuances that might otherwise go missed.
Later, I told her what happened.
"And you didn't want to eat a muffin because of that?" she said, trying to make me feel guilty.
But I know my wife. She doesn't like people molesting her food either. If my father doesn’t finish the muffins then they will go uneaten.
I get those little nuances, too.
************************
What kind of muffins do ghosts eat this time of year?
Boo-berry.
@Alacazowie
