Our annual 12th Night dinner was at my mom’s house this weekend. We have been celebrating the Epiphany (by putting our shoes outside so the Three Wise Men could fill them with presents!) as far back as I can remember. Except for that one year when I drank from the “grown-up” cider by accident and fell down the stairs. I don’t remember that one as well.
This year, after watching Chase play some basketball, we sat down to a meal of Spanakopita, olives, pear tart, chocolate cake (from Moxie) and wine. Lots and lots of wine. It was perfect.
So at some point my mother called Dane an “angelic” child. Chase and I were simply shocked, immediately teaming up to defend ourselves by bragging of our many talents and successes as her bookend children! I said something about being the oldest, and therefore the wisest (it was all I had, give me a break), yada yada. This is about when Chase turned on me, spiteful pre-teen that he is, and claimed to be the most mature – or as he described it, the “ripest.” Everyone got nervously quiet. My grandmother continued her nap at the table. “You know,” he said, “like fruit.”
I’m guessing you have said “ripest” in your head a few times by now and can see where this is going. “Most ripe,” or “very ripened,” we explained to him were much better alternatives to use in the future. **The entire thing reminded me of the SNL Jeopardy skit with Darrell Hammond as Sean Connery. “I will take The Rapists for $200, Alex.” “That’s therapists, not the rapists…”
Now I am not just telling you this to poke fun at my little brother (although, let’s be honest, I’m not above it). I, myself, have made a similar blunder. When I was in 4th grade my mom picked me up after school and took me to Culler Lake (which I would one day swim across for money – ok not so angelic, I can admit that now), so we could chat about our day.
I told my mom that my 4th grade teacher was a whore.
This is where good parenting comes into place because my mom didn’t fly off the handle and ground me (like she did when she found a ripped up math test with an “N” [Not Satisfactory] on it at the bottom of my backpack). She calmly asked me what I meant. I said, “you know, she is super scary like in a movie.”
“You mean horror, Brit.” Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Got it.
And if you are wondering why I put the torn up test with the bad grade back into my book bag after ripping it to shreds, I will tell you: I was terrified that the janitor would find it, deliver it to my mom, and she would take away my Ace of Base cassette tape. I have worst the memory, but this, this I remember. That is a true testament to Swedish pop music.
The moral of the story here is that kids are hilarious. The other, less-obvious but equally important moral of the story is that swimming across Culler Lake is like drinking Hepatitis A from a broken glass. Just FYI, kids.
Merry Orthodox Christmas, Y’all!