Dinner with the relatives

As the third consecutive week of media Bush-bashing, over FEMA’s “slow” response to poor, black Katrina victims drew to a close, I prepared for a direct personal encounter with my Bush-hating relatives. Actually, it was my wife who was trying to prepare me for an evening out with her extended family. By preparing, I mean she practically begged me to “take the high ground”, “be the bigger person”, to “not sink to their level” if and when they pronounced the president as “stupid”, “a liar” or no different than Hitler.

Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not the guys who deliberately make these derisive comments; primarily it’s the women who are emboldened to lash out loud at every aspect of this president’s policies, politics and persona whenever they get together. And to make sure that their complete distain for all things republican are known, they converse at volumes meant to give even those seated at the next table over an ear-full. They gather strength from each other, hatred feeding off their collective rage and woe to any husband who dares inject any call for respect or reason.

Anticipating the dynamics of such a gathering is one thing, but actually being subjected to this type of wanton, in-your-face disrespect is something very different. Planning to “be cool” is a lot more difficult than “staying cool” when subjected to this kind of snide, elitist condescension. So, when the waiter made his way over, I did the only thing I thought could make the evening even more painful than it had already become - I ordered the hottest, spiciest entrée on the menu hoping that by inflicting physical pain on myself, I would become incapable of responding to their taunts. After all, I had always ascribed to the theory that if one part of your body hurts, by purposefully injuring a different body part, the original pain would be eclipsed. At best, this was an interesting theory; at worst it was junk science, but I digress.

As I ate my blackened Mahi and Mexican rice I began to feel a kind of kinship with my fellow Cajun countrymen. Much like eating bitter herbs during the Passover Sedar, in order to feel a connection to the harsh lives lived by my Jewish ancestors when they were enslaved in Egypt, I felt a kind of intestinal connection to the thousands of Gulf Coast refugees, now forced to seek a better life in distant lands - sort of the “Big Easy meets the Big Queasy.” Meanwhile, my bleeding-heart relatives all ordered the Rocky Mountain salmon with wild rice. Delicious, for sure, but just like their righteous indignation over the “inept federal response” and Bush’s “antipathy toward the poor” in New Orleans, these meals would be soon forgotten in favor of their next course du jour – dessert.

Before I could say “Ray Nagin, where’s my bus” our waiter appeared over my shoulder, pouring life-saving water into my empty glass. And just like those waves of Coast Guard choppers delivering food and water to stranded hurricane survivors, this dedicated servant of the public kept my glass filled throughout our entire meal and surely saved me from any spice-inflicted harm. And yes, that mean piece of Mahi and that righteous rice kicked my bland Minnesota pallet so far down the bayou that the ridicules rantings of a whole raft of relatives went uncontested that night, much to the relief of my loving wife.

Good night and give me back my Zantac!