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| Oh, no. Not a turkey melt! |
For one thing, Mr G. cannot skip breakfast and go straight to lunch. Even when he covers a late game, stumbles in at midnight and rolls out of bed at 11 a.m. He might concede to brunch, but it better feature eggs.
My sister-in-law, Nancy, told me a story once about visiting the Guilbeau Manse when Glenn was a young college student home for the weekend. Everyone but Glenn got up early, ate breakfast and lingered over coffee. Then Glenn got up around noon. My mother-in-law ordered everyone out of the kitchen so she could make Glenn's breakfast. No, really. Everyone: Out of the kitchen. The prized son has risen, and he's going to want breakfast. And apparently the entirety of the kitchen table to himself. Cajun mothers and their babies. There's no closer bond.
For decades, my in-laws lived in Metairie (my husband claims he's from New Orleans. Let me set you straight. He's from Metairie). Their home turned into Glenn's personal bed and breakfast during Jazz Fest every year. He'd invite his friends in, spend the day at Jazz Fest, head into the French Quarter and come home in the early morning light. One Sunday morning, Glenn made it home ahead of his friend, Thomas. Knowing Glenn, he probably wandered off and Thomas spent the next few hours looking for him. Glenn's version of that story is that he wanted to turn in sooner than Thomas did. Regardless, there was Thomas, using the hose to wash off his feet in the back yard when my mother-in-law raised the kitchen blinds. My mother-in-law gasped, looked at Thomas with indignation and said, "Thomas, what are you doing coming at 6 in the morning? My son was in at 3."
All of this brings me to Saturday lunch. My husband had a breaking news story. Something about two former players trying to kill each other in Alexandria. Probably while trying to find a downtown restaurant open past 2 in the afternoon. But I'm just guessing. Anyway, I offered to make a grilled cheese sandwich for my hard-working husband. Then I decided to surprise him with a turkey melt as well as a grilled cheese sandwich and fried tomatoes.
Mr. G.: Is there turkey in this sandwich?
Me: Yes, I made you a turkey melt.
Mr. G.: Why would you do that? You said you were making grilled cheese.
Me: You like turkey so I thought I'd surprise you.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey.
Me: Glenn, I've seen you eat turkey.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey and cheese together. You're always trying to make me eat things I don't like.
Me: Yeah, always. It's my mission in life to torture you through food.
Mr. G.: Well, you made me a turkey melt when you said you were making grilled cheese.
Me (Patience now thinner than paper): Oh, for God's sake, Glenn. Open the sandwich, take the turkey off and give it to the dog.
Mr. G.: Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that. OK. I love the tomatoes. How did you make them?
Me: (complete silence)
Mr. G.: Hmmm, they're nice and crunchy.
