If you are waiting to see how the whole cannoli thing from last week worked out, skip to the end. If, however, you are interested in Korean, Mexican, Hawaiian, and Mennonite cultural appropriation (can one appropriate her own culture?), then you’d best read straight through.
This week, Ben asked for Taco Tuesday. I confirmed that he was ok with a seasoning packet and store-bought tortillas. I thawed some ground beef and planned for the tired old seasoning kit that has you simply adding beef. Then Ben came home from one of his volunteer jobs with a complimentary “World Taco Kit: Korean Inspired BBQ.”
This was not a turn that I wanted the evening to take, but the world taco kit was not something that Ben could let go. He believed that an evening of delightful Korean cuisine was his due. In examining the package, containing foil pouches of sauce, seasoning mix, and tortillas, I found that it’s “sell by” date had come and gone – some time ago.
I understand that most people would not think twice. You’re looking at a Korean taco kit that is of a certain age, and you start making plans for the rest of the evening, if not the rest of your life. The kit goes in the dust bin of life, and you start over. But, you are not a Mennonite. A Mennonite vigorously smells the tortilla package, finds no fault (despite her best efforts), and agrees to move forward.
On the surface, he is about as transparent as they come, but I am still learning the secrets of Ben and what makes him tick. Yes, 98% of his raison d’être is food, but there was something else here, too. He was proud of his contribution to family life. He brought that taco kit home, he made us a meal, and he encouraged the rest of us to enjoy that tired, bizarre assemblage of food stuff. As parents, it is our job to make sure Ben’s needs are met, but sometimes his most striking need is to be needed, and on those nights, we eat old Seoul tacos.
And now, are you ready for the cannoli, the whole cannoli and nothing but the cannoli?
Last week’s post asked you to determine which family cannoli tale is true. Did Ben really eat a whole tray of cannolis at a school district art show open house? Did Phil send back a restaurant cannoli? Did Phil actually shoplift and return cannolis? Before I reveal the true cannoli story, I must admit that I am not a great liar. While only one story is completely true, they all contain pieces of truth. If you missed last week’s post, click here:
Most of you voted for story #1, and while it is true that there was an art show incident while we were in Argentina, Sophia was actually the perpetrator, and it was a tray of cookies, not cannolis. She clearly remembers asking Grandpa how many she could have, and he didn’t give her a limit, so she consumed 14 cookies. Ben’s blow-out that evening was unrelated to Sophia’s cookie consumption.
Story #3, in which Phil shoplifts cannolis, only received one vote. Both of Phil’s siblings were skeptical about this story, not because they think he’s not capable of this crime, but the details regarding Dillons didn’t check out. When has Dillons carried cannolis? When has Phil ever mailed anything? This story, however, contains more elements of truth than you may think. Just substitute batteries for cannolis, and it happened.
As Eileen and Michelle correctly guessed, story #2 is the real cannoli story! In a moment of temporary insanity, Phil sent back a cannoli, and we have been wandering in the dessert desert ever since. I don’t know what a cannoli’s half-life is, but I am still holding out hope that we may one day eat at that restaurant again, so you will receive no more details. (To be fair, Phil, my editor, contests my representation of our exile.) Please take heed, dear reader, learn from our experience, and never send back a cannoli.