Gus’s mom: “Oh, thanks. I’d be happy to give you the recipe.”
Gus, swallowing a bite: “You know, the primary taste I’m getting is not-Oranjee.”
Me: “Good observation, Gus. This food, while delicious, does not taste like Oranjee.”
My mom: “Hazel.” Gus: “It tastes like...” Me: “Food.”
Gus: “Yes, precisely. It tastes like food, excellently prepared. But it does not taste, how do I put this delicately...
Me: “It does not taste like God Himself cooked heaven into a series of five dishes which were then served to you
accompanied by several luminous balls of fermented, bubbly plasma
while actual and literal flower petals floated down all around your canal-side dinner table.”
Gus: “Nicely phrased.” Gus’s father: “Our children are weird.” My dad: “Nicely phrased.”
A week after our dinner, Gus ended up in the ER with chest pain, and they admitted him overnight,
so I drove over to Memorial the next morning and visited him on the fourth floor.
I hadn’t been to Memorial since visiting Isaac. It didn’t have any of the cloyingly bright primary color–painted walls
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