One of my family’s classic Christmas movies is Christopher Robin, the heartwarming tale of how a grown man’s midlife crisis is solved by talking to a stuffed bear. It reminds me of my father, a “Christopher Robin” all his life. And by that, I mean he was a man who loved honey and had that lovely albeit peculiar habit of talking to animals – stuffed or otherwise.
Dad’s been my superhero who could find the TV remote faster than anyone else in the house. But he was also so ridiculously talented that he painted like Da Vinci (minus the fancy beard), could fix a car tire with nothing but glue (who needs a spare tire anyway?), and played any instrument without even bothering to learn music. We’d hand him a piano, an accordion, or a keyboard, and he’d figure them out in about ten seconds and then play any tune like… Mozart on steroids. At least, that’s how it seemed to my six-year-old eyes.
But most importantly, my father knew how to tell stories and had a knack for coming up with the wackiest titles. We’re talking gems like “The Epic Tale of How Your Sister Broker Her Thumb Chasing Squirrels,” “The Time I Almost Became a Human Pretzel,” and, of course, “The Legendary Banana Peel Disaster that Ruined the Family Picnic.” Trust me, our family gatherings were never dull! Every story was bursting at the seams with more plot twists than a pretzel factory (no relation to Dad’s “almost” condition), characters so vibrant they could be mistaken for a box of crayons, and life lessons that clung to your brain like gum to a shoe.
But let me tell you about “The Synchronized Family Puke” – a real masterpiece of eeriness!
My dear old Dad loved to regale us with tales of his childhood in Poland and the country’s food shortage after World War II. Imagine living in a world where everything is as scarce as blue unicorns, and in a desperate quest for food, Poles had to resort to reaching out to their long-lost relatives who had managed to escape the chaos before the war. They’d send their sob stories to places as far-flung as the United States and Australia and, in return, received spam, oatmeal, pickled herring, and lime Jello. Dad’s family survived the first postwar year in this manner.
Now get this: my dad swears that a mysterious package appeared on their doorstep out of nowhere a few weeks before Christmas, 1945. And what was inside, you ask? A box with a medium-sized jar, complet with a screw top and absolutely no label. My grandmother, a master (mistress – to use an inclusive language) of creativity, cracked open the container, only to find a substance that resembled powdered milk but in a dim and flavorless shade of gray (yes, she even dared to taste it with her finger!). Being the genius she was, she concluded that it must be a protein booster and promptly started adding it to the family’s soups. Everyone was overjoyed with the extra calorific contribution until – talk about timing – the jar had hit rock bottom, and a letter from my grandmother’s brother arrived.
“Dear Sister, I’ve sent over the ‘Wife-in-a-Box’ crematorium ashes edition. May she rest in peace and not cause any spooky shenanigans! All she ever dreamed of was a cozy little spot next to her dear old mom. I pray you grant her last wish, getting her that magical send-off!” Dad said the text read or words to that effect.
According to Dad, the clan engaged in a coordinated regurgitation routine for a week, with dear auntie finding her final resting place in the porcelain throne. It seems evident that eating members of one’s species is illegal, yet no one can be held accountable if they are unaware of it, especially if it gives them a bout of indigestion!
But then, I can’t help but wonder if Dad’s story is reliable at all because guess what? My sister broke her thumb trying to skip the ripe and not chasing squirrels. Who needs squirrels when you can have a broken thumb, right? As for dear old Dad, he didn’t “almost” transform into a human pretzel, but he did manage to sprain his ankle while practicing the mystical yoga Destroyer of the Universe position.
It looks like Dad might have taken his storytelling skills to a whole new level, adding some extra sparkle to make the tales as thrilling as a roller coaster ride. But then, maybe they did devour my aunt by the spoonful… I’ll never know now because Dad, who is no longer with us, has taken the secret with him.
INSTANT NOODLES 