My son, the cat burglar, told me recently that he would no longer be eating dinner with the family if we continued to rely upon the listless tradition in our menu choices. He said this to me while disguised as a French sailor in a cafe not far from his cigarette boat. Zee pot-roast, he explained, is so terriblah blahnde. We shared a long pause before he stood with a snap, saluted me gracefully and whistled his way down the dock. Frustrated, I considered what other choices might allow for the most stimulating fare to entice my son's palate, so I consulted one Dr. Steven Cowmilk, my long time friend and associate-- and an esteemed professor at the local university.
Dr. Cowmilk's office held the same fragrance as had my Aunt Ingrid's apartment in Queens, a rather pungent acidic bite followed by a very sterile and fabricated floral scent. It was the kind of sanitary fragrance that one might experience visiting a retirement home built no less than 50 years ago. Nonetheless, the good Doctor gladly offered his sage wisdom to my recent woes.
Surely he would enjoy braised beef ribs? Dr. Cowmilk seemed to have a knack for making everything he said sound as though it were a question. I nodded and explained that I would discuss this issue with my wife, which I wholly intended to do as soon as I arrived home. The conversation with Judy was a somber one, as she took full responsibility for our son's unhappiness. Of course, we both wanted the best for him, but it was Judy who took it the hardest when Noran first told us of his plans to become a cat burglar. He's doing this to push us farther away! she bellowed, weeping onto my chest, What have we done wrong? Where did we fail?
I also considered that this was merely a ploy of Noran's, in all his narcissism and elusive nature, to find new ways to avoid spending time with the family. First he hated the selection of games we chose to enjoy on our weekly game nights, and then it was the brand of orange juice we preferred, and now it was a flagrant rejection of the food upon which we had raised the boy. It had been like this ever since Noran came home from his first successful robbery. I could see the rush in his eyes as he snuck back into the living room with a bag full of expensive jewelry on his shoulder, smiling devilishly. I knew it was not a good life to live, then, but I also knew it was what made him happiest. He often told me that burglary was what "chose him" and that he would "be the best there ever was," even then, in those early days, I believed him.
That night, as I thumbed through the recipe book in search of something exquisite for our beloved son on his next surprise visit home, my thumbs at once stopped and could no longer bear to turn the pages. Instead, I walked into Noran's room and looked around at all the things he had collected, all the fruits of his late night labors. Paintings, jewels, pieces of ivory and ancient weaponry were scattered haphazardly across the room. I smiled and thought for a moment that braised beef ribs might be a nice change.
