kingdom of lunacy

You're dying to know: is my family insane or not? Some of you are dying to know because my symptoms seem to indicate a particularly wacky mental inheritance. Others want to know because my writing indicates that I possess unequalled clarity and perspective. Still others are shrinks who would like to treat my whole family and make a bundle off what must be some spectacular dysfunction.

I will let all of you decide for yourselves from a few family snapshots.

the waffle obsession
Our ethnic background is predicated on the primacy of bland, starchy foods. We honour the Lord, remember our martyred heretics and torment in-laws by sitting down before mountains of white gooey stuff. The most sacred occasions bring us to a place called the Berry Barn - an ecstatic combination of starch and tacky giftware. Here you may browse through special berry giftware before gorging yourself at the waffle topping buffet. (their waffles are designed to hold 6X their own volume in berry toppings) The waffle is the meal. But if you're an outsider and don't understand this, there are other starch options on the menu - all of which are accompanied by sausage.

Sam, being a heathen, hates this place. But it's not about like or dislike. Do you like communion? Do you like existence? The fool asks these questions. The wise man honours the waffle.

what the siblings do for fun
Recently my sister got in a car wreck. My brother and I heard about it from Mom, who used to be a nurse and is extremely pragmatic: "She's got a throbbing in her right temple, her right eye is seeing spots, and she can't move her neck. So it doesn't sound too serious. She went home." (She inherited my mom's imperviosness to pain.) An hour away, and not answering her phone. Well, I and my brother decided to heroically blaze out there and make her go to the doctor - if she wasn't already dead on the basement floor. After a jolly good road trip with fast food, poor coffee and witty repartee, we got to the tiny town where she lives and found her alive if somewhat bent up. 'Perfectly fine,' she insisted. Only after she lost the argument and found herself at the door of the tiny-town hospital was it safe to admit that she did, in fact, feel pretty wrecked. We had them call in The Doctor, who was probably already in a flannel nighty watching 'hymn sing'. While waiting, we talked about our earliest memories and tried to piece together our history. We also joked loudly about speculums, bedpans and smalltown infidelity. We laughed in the face of mortality; we bonded in the examining room. The doctor arrived, poked her a bit, and sent her home. We left satisfied with our disruption of everyone's evening.

Sam wondered: was it prudent to drive all that way when she may not even have been there? She's a big girl, she can take care of herself. Lisa now blogs in response: prudence is not the point. Prudence never facilitated a good speculum joke.

There's more. But I have to break for perogies with some kind of white sauce.