Dinner for 18

It all started a few days ago when Angie informed me that Simone and Flo would be coming over on New Year's Eve. The next day, Angie was on the phone with Katherina.

'Sure, you guys can come over. Lauri can also spend the night.'

The next night was quiz night, and Kristina spontaneously needed an alternative plan for New Year's Eve. Angie came to her rescue. 

The day after that, we went to dinner with Tobi and Erica, who are visiting from the States. On the way to the restaurant, Tobi asked a question disguised as another question.

'So, Steve, are you guys making chili again this year?'

'Yes, Tobi, we would love if you and Erica could join us on New Year's Eve.'

And that's the funny story about how I voluntarily ended up making chili for 18 humans on New Year's Eve. The recipe I use is one that my dad handed down years ago. It actually won 1st place in a Virginia chili contest in 1981. My dad even named it - 'SHIT HOT CHILI'. Over the years, I have scaled up and adapted the recipe to accommodate nine people, which is our normal guest quota. I included the recipe for 9 people at the end of this blog. If you ever find yourself needing to make it for 18 people, just double everything and your 'before' picture should look something like this.

Despite fully justified assumptions, the beer and Tequila are not for the cook - they are the secret ingredients. Ok, full disclosure - the recipe was conceived when my dad was still drinking like the sailor he was at the time so it may not be needed at all. I wouldn't know - I've never been brave enough to stray from the original recipe. I photocopied this original recipe many years ago. It was covered in grease stains, sweat and comments written by my dad in all caps, his go-to writing style. One of them stood out for me.

October 4th, 1981

WE FIRST TRIED THIS ON SUNDAY OCT 4TH, 1981. THE KIDS WERE AT LISA'S BIRTHDAY PARTY AT THE COLLEGE PARK ROLLER-SKATING RINK AND PAT AND I HAD A NICE AFTERNOON JUST BEING TOGETHER AND MAKING CHILI. 'FEEDBACK' FROM 1ST TRY: EXCELLENT!

I think about that every year that I make this recipe. Angie and I often get caught up in the chaos of raising kids. Every now and then we get a moment to ourselves and I'd like to think that we cherish those kid-less moments together like my parents did so many decades ago. None of that shit happened on New Year's Day, though. I was busy kicking Angie's ass out of the kitchen so I could make 3 pots of SHIT HOT CHILI.

It's not a party at the Johnson's Zoo until the police show up or someone breaks something. While I was adding the SHIT to SHIT HOT CHILI, Peter decided to try breaking his foot by launching a Kung Fu Panda move in the hallway. The good news is, he did not break his ankle as we initially thought. The bad news is that his overly muscular dad snapped a few shots of him being carried to the sofa by his mamma, who is now shorter than him. When the hell did that happen?   

Peter tends to over-nurse his injuries, but when Tobi and Erica showed up with bags of sweets from the U.S. of A., Hop-along Pete rose to the occasion and secured his place as the primary gift-receiver.

At first, I was fully on board with Tobi's plan to bribe our kids into loving him. That was before the sugar snacks were distributed to the greedy masses. Talk about your all-time backfires. 

Being the wise parents that we sometimes are, we timed the sugar high perfectly so that the low came crashing down just before it was time for our yearly 'Dinner for One' showing. For those of you that have not heard of it, it is a comedy skit making fun of the Brits that has somehow become a standard New Year's Eve show that every self-respecting German family must watch. No British person that I know has ever admitted to hearing about or seeing the show, but that's besides the point. Roll the film!

A weird coincidence - 'Dinner for One' has a run-time of, you guessed it, 18 minutes. After almost twenty minutes of border-line silence, it was time to prep for blowing shit up. I assigned the work package of filling refillable lighters to two of the few remaining sober adults.

After another twenty minutes of border-line contemplation, we were ready to get our crackers on. We loudly made our way down to the park in front of the City Hall building at the end of our street. Shortly before midnight, I looked over and caught Peter stuffing his face with rockets. I of course whipped out my camera but I was too late.

'Ah, come on, Peter. One shot'

'Ok, but don't get my teeth.'

'Um,...Weird, but ok.'

  

Feel free to zoom in on the picture and let me know in the comments if you see any teeth. I won't tell Peter though - he seems to be a tad self-conscious about his grill.  

A few minutes later, the clock struck twelve and all hell broke loose. It was Matti's first New Year's with the Zoo and I don't think he was prepared for just how loud it gets downtown. He raced across the street and took shelter under the City Hall awning until it was all over.

The rest of the fireworks blowout went as it normally does with one exception. Peter and David discovered that if you drop fireworks in the sewer, it make a very loud explosion. Matti was not impressed. 

To anyone that lives across the street from City Hall that had their water pipes inexplicably burst on New Year's Eve: 'um, ... sorry 'bout that.'

As soon as the smoke cleared, it was clear that Matti was having no part of joining us for the after fireworks party. We also lost Kristina who was off to celebrate Johannes' birthday at Vater Rhein's, the best place downtown to get a mean bowl of spaghetti at 2 o'clock in the morning (so I've heard). And then there was thirteen.  

  

The hour after fireworks is typically wasted trying to explain to adrenaline-pumped post-generation Z types why they need to go to bed. I give Peter points for trying a new approach this year.

'But I'm taller than Mom!'

'You're right. Angie - time for bed!'

Angie laughed a little too loudly. Peter sighed defiantly and raised his hands in the air. I then reminded Peter of the family rule that children cannot ignore their parents even if said parents occasionally ignore each other. Okay, it's more than just occasional and that exception only tends to work in one direction, but that's not the point. GO TO BED!!

The whole 'veins popping' trick always worked with my dad and I thank him each year for teaching me that trick at an early age.

After an involuntary rendition of 'So Long, Farewell', the von Trapp kids retired to their sleeping quarters to continue on with rather loud activities that bore no resemblance whatsoever to anything remotely related to sleeping. But, hey! Their door was shut.

I'm sure that in one of Sebastian's previous lives he was a high-ranking official of the Star Trek Fleet Command, but in another life, I'm quite confident that he was a bartender specialized in making gin and tonic's for ladies who had already consumed copious amounts of Champagne. Move over, Brian Flanagan.   

Two and half gin tonics later, someone asked Simone to get half naked so that we could check out one of her tattoos. She found this funny.     

Three gin and tonics later, Angie yanked on one of the left-over Christmas crackers and proudly displayed what she started calling a dog-horse.

After grinning like the village Trump for almost a minute, Angie started making what I can only hope she thought were dog-horse noises. I've never heard a dog-horse but I can state confidently that they do not sound anything like what was coming out of Angie's mouth. 

Needless to write, the night was involuntarily winding down. Even Simba knew it was time to find his human warm bottle, also known as Simonelina. 

Simone was the domino piece. She toppled, followed by Angie. Sarah went home. Sebastian and I stayed up and took pictures of marquee signs made by wild animals that only make sense to the inner circle of The Johnson's Zoo. Frono!


SHIT HOT CHILI:
3 Kg Ground Beef
4 Steaks (cooked)
2 green pepper
2 red pepper
3 medium onions
6 celery stalks
6 cloves garlic
3 cans peeled tomatoes (400 g)
5 boxes tomato sauce (500 g)
2 tube tomato paste
3 bay leaves
1 TBSP garlic salt
2 TBSP parsley
3 TBSP Oregano
1/2 jar jalapeno peppers
2 Habanero peppers (diced)
1 TBSP Tabasco sauce
1 TBSP Cumin
1 TBSP Cayenne Pepper
2 TBSP Chili Powder
1/2 Beer
8 cl Tequila (4 shots)
3 cans kidney beans

Cook steaks - 4 minutes per side on medium-high heat. Cut into tiny pieces. Brown and drain ground beef. Add to a pot. All other ingredients go into a blender. Throw everything into a big-ass pot and let simmer for 3 hours, uncovered. After 3 hours, add the kidney beans (with juice) - cook for one more hour. Enjoy!

--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk: [We were lucky enough to get the animals locked in their room - there was no way in hell I was going in to try and do Ladder Talk]
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
David: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
Tom: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
David: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
Tom: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
David: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....
Tom: zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ....

Forty Winks

To take forty winks is to take a nap for a short period of time (usually not in bed)

     --Wikipedia

Before jumping to Rip Van Wrinkle's goodnight snore, the morning kicked off proper with a crappy breakfast.

Peter has always loved my toilet paper cartoons. Months ago, he launched his own unusual artistic expression by cartooning the empty rolls. Today, he unveiled the top forty from his private collection.

As Peter was gathering his art, he somehow thought that Mama would also really dig it if he were to convert the guest bathroom into a bookstore.

Unfortunately, Mama was still pre-coffee, so the overwhelming praise of gratitude that Peter was expecting would have to wait. I tried jump-starting my old lady's mood by cooking her breakfast in bed, only I didn't let her eat it in bed. Get to the table, woman!

As Tommy ripped opened Mama's new iPhone, Peter was busy trying to break another arm.

For those of you without memory loss, you might remember Angie's birthday last year and wonder why she would be getting yet another iPhone. Man, there's no gettin' nuttin by you guys.

The reason is simple. A few months ago, Angie could not find her phone. This happens three times a week, so normally not a big deal. It became an issue when she realized it was stolen. See, simple.

Shortly after the first round of birthday gifts, my freak-out radar starting pinging. I didn't immediately understand why, so I drank another coffee asked my brain to evaluate the situation.

1. It was Angie's birthday.
2. In a few hours, we would be entertaining family and friends for coffee and cake.
3. The place looked like shit.

'Uh, Angie, I'm sorry, but I need to run out to do, uh, really important things that I can't tell you about.'

I even winked several times to sell the whole 'I'm totally picking up secret last-minute birthday gifts for you' story. She reluctantly agreed to release me to the wild for a few hours.

'Fine, but you have to be back at two!'

At that point, the boys picked up on what was going on and collectively gave me a pleading look. Save us!!

'Okay. I'm taking the boys. Bye!'

I grabbed the boys and narrowly escaped Mama's wrath as she fired up the vacuum. We then went on to do really important things that I could not tell Angie about. Wink, wink.

I thought about bringing Angie a Happy Meal, but they are really meant for the younger generation and...well, it's her birthday. I'll just keep my smart-ass comments for the next blog.

On the way home, I realized two things. First, Tommy has the common sense to be leery of freaky looking street mimes wearing strange outfits.

Second, David doesn't.

We made it back as the first guests arrived. The afternoon was well spent drinking coffee, eating cake, and visiting with friends and family.

For the evening program, I had arranged a babysitter so that Angie and I could get our 'Eat, Drink, Sleep' on. By 'arranged', I of course mean that I had not planned jack and had frantically begged Ute last night if she could once again save the evening. She could. 

Ute not only saved the night; she also recommended a very nice restaurant conveniently located close to the pub. Along the way we ran into a life-size Guinness that made my liver flutter. If I weren't married...

Angie and I were still on the 'Eat' chapter of the night's novel when I presented Angie with her forty-page birthday book.

'Gee, thanks! You should have called it "Forty things I hate about Angie".'

'Nah, too long. Do you like it?'

She didn't really answer. Instead, she whistled for the waitress and began ordering a shitload of cocktails. I took this as a sign that she was thirsty and wanted to toast my first self-published book. I was only half right. She downed a champagne cocktail and threw on her dusty editor-in-chief hat.

'My hair is too short!'

Luckily, I had a pen with me and ensured that Angie's crew cut magically transformed into hair that at least touched her shoulders. I won't say that she was happy, but after a few more cocktails and a belly full of really expensive food, Angie was at least ready to move on to the 'Drink' chapter of the evening.

The Brass Monkey may have changed owners over the years, but it is still the pub where Angie and I had our first fight. It's also where we still feel at home. Please don't analyze the connection.

After a frenzy of gifts and pints, Angie slipped into her old habits.

It could be worst. In our B.C. days (before children), she would routinely alternate between kicking ass in table soccer and stealing cucumbers from the kitchen. Tonight, she at least refrained from swiping food. The kitchen now has a lock. 

I left early to relieve angelical women with an abundance of patience when dealing with unruly animals. Before I left, Angie and I agreed on two things.

1. That she would not stay more than 30 minutes before moving back to our house for a party to rival John Belushi's nice attempt. Toga! Toga!
2. That she would beg, plead, force and/or otherwise convince half of the bar to join us.

After thanking Ute to the point of being restrainable, I realized two things.

1. Angie is complete crap at following the first line item on a list of mutually agreed orders.
2. She's actually quite skilled at following the second line item.

So, yeah. Two hours later, Angie stumbled in with a bunch of pub-folk ready to get their poker on. Birthday girl then jumped forward to the 'Sleep' chapter of the evening and proudly announced that she was going to bed.

'Have fun, Steve.'

And with that *poof*, Angie was gone. The confused crowd then looked at me. After an awkward pause, I slowly raised my hand in the traditional 'sign of the horns' and set the mood.

'Party on!'

After several high-fives and many rounds of poker, including one where Stepan was able to pull a natural four-of-a-kind with aces out of his sleeve and not get caught, Angie decide to grace us again with her presence.

My first thought was 'What the hell is Angie doing back up?'. My second thought was 'What the hell is Angie doing back up?'.

Angie was wrapped in a blanket and sleep-stumbled past several surprised poker players, including me. She then face-planted the sofa and began snoring. Loudly. After a brief 'WTF' moment, the entire poker crew cracked up. I was worried that our spontaneous outburst of hysteria might wake up zombie chick. It didn't.

Sometimes, I have to stretch my creative imagination to come up with funny material. More often than not, though, Angie gives me way more blog-worthy memories than I know what to do with. Thanks, Butter Buns!

So yeah, let me ask you - birthday chick had just passed out on the sofa. What other option did I have other than to grab one of our bathroom towels and have everyone decorate it so that we could visually honor Sleeping Beauty?

Don't answer that. In the end, I have to say that I was really impressed with everyone's creative flair. Only tomorrow will tell if Angie shares my view, but at least she'll have forty winks to sleep on it.

--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk: [Ute amazingly ensured that the animals were asleep - no Ladder Talk tonight]
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
David: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Tom: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
David: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Tom: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
David: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Tom: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Who let the dog out?

For the past year and a half, Angie has been the Quiz Mistress at The Dubliner, our local Irish pub that is conveniently located within crawling distance. The Quiz, for you non-German-Irish types is a weekly trivia night, where Angie reads out 30 questions and people huddle around in teams of six or less and try their damndest to not get caught looking up the answers on their iPhones. Yes, we also know what you did last summer.

The difference tonight was that it was her birthday. A rather tragic event that started at 00:01 with an innocent but completely serious question.

'So, you didn't forget my birthday again this year, did you?'

For those of you with short memories (and Angie is definitely not part of your posse), I had a birthday malfunction last year that has resulted in me being stuck in the doghouse for 365.25 days. Not that I was counting.

So, yeah - back to the not-so-innocent question, which was followed by my carefully thought-out guilty answer.

'Honey, I tried to pick up your gift today, but it simply was not there. They promised me that I could pick it up tomorrow, though.'

'Okay.'

Now let me tell you, the 'okay' you see in text above probably looks cute, sexy and innocent, but it might as well have read 'O.J.' I tried to explain my defense, but the plaintiff adjourned early and went to bed. Love means never having to say 'you're forgiven'.

The next morning was awkwardly quiet, if you exclude the noise being generated by three boys screaming 'Happy Birthday' at the top of their lungs.

When I came home from work, I had to break more earth-shattering news to Angie.

'Look, I'm sorry, but I went to pick up your gift and it's still not there.'

'Okay. Whatever. I'm getting in the bath.'

I made Angie a warm glass of tea that is supposed to calm stressed people down and brought it into her.

'Did the boys at least make me a card?'

'Of course they did - all three of them. They're just finishing them up now.'

In my book of love, lying is allowed if it involves a naked chick and her emotions. Two seconds after leaving melancholy Mama to shampoo her misery away, I raced into the living room, flipped off the T.V. and started chucking crayons at the boys.

'QUICK! You guys need to draw a picture. NOW!!!!'

Peter immediately broke out into a sweat and began furiously scribbling. At least he didn't start crying. Tom freaked out and for some reason demanded that I help him draw a dragon - 'a mean one'. David took everything in and rather calmly explained to the collective freak out crew that 'Mama does not like scribbles' and 'she certainly does not like dragons.'

It was at this point that I yanked David up and somewhat gently placed him on the table.

'And what, exactly, do you think would make Mama happy?'

'A super-duper pattern with no white on the paper, of course.'

'Great, then why don't you draw that and leave your brothers alone?'

'Okay.'

I hovered over the trio like a coach on the eve of a big game, loudly encouraging them to finish in showers of spittle. In the end, my threat tactics and vocal tutoring paid off. Angie came out in a robe and gave all three boys a super-big hug. In the end, Peter was so thrilled with himself that he asked Mama if he could have the drawing back so that he could take it into school. Even with only two drawings, she looked genuinely happy. Then she turned to me.

'I'm going to Quiz. Bye.'

'Okay, ba-bye. Happy birthday again! Love you!'

Other than a totally non-flirtatious glare, there wasn't much of a response that did anything for me. That's okay, though, I was busy preparing my surprise and waiting for the baby-sitter that glare-chick didn't know about. Yet.

When I showed up at the pub, Angie was certainly surprised, but it was more the 'what the hell are you doing here?' surprise than the 'oh my God I'm so happy to see you because you put Brad Pitt to shame on a daily basis' surprise.

I think I scored some points when I forked over my homemade birthday card.


Okay, maybe Angie wasn't so thrilled about the funny team name, but I had also organized a birthday cake - that's gotta count for something, right?


Truth be told, I did not know about the cake that Sarah had spent three days baking until I got there, but I still gleefully took credit for it because Angie had suddenly started to warm up. It probably had more to do with the 39 flames blazing on Sarah's Torta di Trionfo, but whatever - one bark closer to leaving the doghouse.

Not only did Angie damn near collapse a lung blowing out Sarah's mini forest fire, she also made Signora Cucinare reel back from what I can only hope is garlic breath.


I didn't have a paper bag to help out with the pursuing hyperventilation attack, so instead I whipped out the big guns. That's right, I brought out the iLuv.

iLuv my shit-eating grin as it finally dawned on Angie that I had actually not forgotten her birthday and that I had even taken some measures to organize a kick-ass evening. Oh, ye of little faith.

A nice googly-eye look is okay if you're not a hairy alpha-beast that can crack coconuts with his stomach, but I needed at least the PG version of a thank you. Luckily, Angie is an avid movie-goer and planted a PG-13 special right on the smacker that immediately opened the door to my cage. Right on, right on - you gotta dig on that!

It was nice to be out of the doghouse for a while. Three hours, to be exact. And before you ask, no - I did not do anything house-worthy after three hours. We actually had a great time just sitting at the pub and hanging out with old friends. We even played the Name Game, a drinking game that we haven't played since our B.C. (before children) years.

Back then, Angie had bangs, but other than that, not much has changed. I still won. She still claimed that she had won, and I had to yet again explain my view on drinking games.

See, in a drinking game, the more often you lose, the more you drink. Angie's goal was to lose less, which she did because she hates not winning at anything. For me, the only reason to play a drinking game is to drink - it's even in the name. By that logic, and my liver can confirm it, I won. Besides, it's my blog.

My three-hour tour was over too quickly, but I did not want to keep Ute waiting. She had been awesome enough to babysit on very little notice, so I did not want to push it. Thanks again, Ute - you made Angie's night. Actually I did, but you definitely helped. No wait, actually, I think the iPhone is what did the trick. Hey, wait a minute! I see now that she doesn't need either one of us any more and I just sent material girl off to get her party on with all of her new iFriends. It's okay, though. I still thank you for your help. To show my appreciation, I thought I would write you the longest side narration I have ever, ever written. Enjoy. Or not.

--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: Papa! Did you see my picture? It was so cool, that was my best ever.
David: That Mama like my drawing the best.
Tom: When Mama have a birthday and we sing 'happy birthday' but the funny one with Mama smells like a zoo.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When my friends ring the doorbell and I had pajamas on.
David: That Tommy hit me right on my nose with a book and he laughed.
Tom: When I bonk Davey on the nose.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: To go swimming in the pool.
David: To go to the pool and spring in like a water bomb.
Tom: To go to Grams and Opa.

To Catch a Thief

I woke up this morning to a ransacked apartment and immediately shouted for Angie.

'Holy shit! We've been robbed!'

I raced down the hall to check on the boys and was relieved to find them innocently snoring away in bed. I thought about calling the cops, but decided to first launch a preliminary investigation of my own. Papa style.

The first clue my trained eye picked up on was my cell phone, which I had asked Angie to put on the charger the night before.


My keen sense of sleuthery immediately made another rather disturbing discovery. I don't claim to understand the inner workings of Angie's mind, let alone a criminal's, but this was just too far beyond what my gray matter could comprehend. The cold-hearted criminals must have unplugged the charger in a mocking attempt to ensure that my phone was completely dead at exactly the moment when I wanted to call the SWAT team in. Bastards!

I explained my deductions to Angie, who turned red in the face and left the room, a clear indication that I was on the right track. I continued on with my investigation and soon after found the next clue, which provided deep insight into the minds of the culprits.


I paused for a second to analyze this latest revelation. The well thought-out finger-graffiti on the base of our TV stand indicated that the perpetrator either has Angie under surveillance or has a sense of humor, possibly both. It's also quite clear that the culprit has an abdomen that you can wash clothes on and a hairful of chest. Just the facts, ma'am.

As I continued my search, I came across a witness cowering in the corner.

At first glance, the potential informant seemed slightly less than traumatized. After a few probing questions, though, it became quite clear that the pint-sized 'victim' had more culpability than he was willing to admit. I then asked him to come down to the kitchen for a few questions and it became clear that the boy had issues.


After stripping down naked and beating on a trashcan for reasons that can only be explained by genetics and the boy's mother, the accused broke down and admitted to trashing the living room.

Released on bail, the juvenile delinquent was closely monitored as he warmed up with Peter for his Saturday morning sports.


Notice that Tom has his jacket on. Since I still had my detective hat on, I gathered that Peter's squat partner assumed he was also attending the 'big boy fun play' that Tommy only understands on a primitive level. One primal scream later, Tommy also understood that he had put his coat on for no apparent reason other than to amuse his sadistic Papa.

After explaining the facts of life to Tom, I took Peter to sports. After sports, we went to the playground, where Peter growled to me that he was a crouching tiger-bird. Ummm...okay.


I left Bruce Lee's crazy nephew and went to check on my other mentally challenged offspring.


Tommy was totally fixated on his Bobby Car. From experience, I knew that he would ride around for hours and hours; it was a state of mind that I like to call 'leave the boy alone'. Following my clever advice, I left Big Wheel Kid to find out what David was destroying.

I found David perched, poised, and more than willing to completely annihilate a mud puddle until a certain sexy stranger grabbed his ear and explained yet again the concepts of pain and suffering that could or could not result from not listening to one's elders when it came to jumping on watery clusters of dirt.

Confident that I had sufficiently instilled fear and compliance in David, I moved on to Angie, who was grading papers in a fashion that rivaled the Ford assembly lines from the early 1900's.


Angie is a creature of habit and, being German, she habitually resists change. By 'resist', I of course mean that she flat-out refuses to entertain the possibility of changing anything that her brain has deemed orderly. It shouldn't have been so surprising to discover that David has inherited Angie's innate ability to resist authority, yet I was still shocked and awed.

'What?'

This was the question that David posed to me as he was trying to sneak back into the apartment. Instead of a self-induced aneurysm, I chose to ignore the fact that filthy-swine Davey had yet again neglected to head my advice. Instead, I hosed little piggy down, slapped on some pajamas and got my poker on.


Shortly into the first round, I expected one of three loud animals to start barking. As Lady Luck would have it, the animals did not wake up, even when Simone and Flo stopped by for the monthly poker lesson.

In poker, it's always the subtle tell-tale signs that give away the loser. Flo, for example, hides his mouth with his cards and stares at them when he has a good hand. Angie, on the other hand, squints and sticks her tongue out when she is trying to bluff.

I found Angie's technique to be a bit strange, but I'm used to odd people. Sometimes I even marry them, despite their obvious deficiencies in poker. At one point, I looked over and took notice of Angie's pile.

'Holy shit! We've been robbed!'

At least this time, the culprits were sitting across the table from me. As per usual, I had a big fat fatty pile, so from a family perspective, we were breaking even. When Angie tried to buy more chips for the third time, though, I had to intervene. Papa style.

--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: That I played with Paul and Sebastian.
David: That I can play with Tom.
Tom: I like the pirate thing.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: I didn't have one.
David: Play not with Tom.
Tom: I play not mit David and Peter and Paul.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: To go to Grams and Opa's.
David: Play with Tom.
Tom: Play memory.

We miss Peter so much!

Peter left for Africa last night and since then the rest of the family has been in a state of severe depression. More than usual. Different people react differently when battling such sorrow and suffering. Tom apparently hides his emotions by eating powdered donuts and giggling tears away.

After watching Tommy's donut-frenzy and subsequent rise in dopamine levels, the rest of us decided to eat as well.

As you can see, David wasn't snapping out of it. He bawled his eyes out and cried for Peter. At one point, I told him 'nice try' and made him eat the rest of his tear-soaked eggs. He smirked, donned a pirate hat and Hawaiian lei, and announced to everyone that all of Peter's toys were now his. Bwah-ha-ha, the world is mine! MINE!

In then end, we had to physically restrain Davey to control his, uh, sadness. When that didn't work, we kicked him out of the house and sent him to Alessio's birthday pirate party. Don't ask me where the Hawaiian lei came into play.

After David left, Tom had yet another wave of unhappiness. Luckily, Eisi could overlook his own personal anguish long enough to comfort poor Tommy.

Eisi didn't really do anything; sometimes it's funny enough just to look at him. Watching Tom crack up at goofy people made me think of Peter. I wonder what he is doing right now.

Peter was on a plane, getting ready to take off from Johannesburg to Windhoek. They had just started the 'flight announcements' that I still consider insulting. Come on - what kinda moron doesn't know how to buckle his seat belt?

Peter is so thorough (anal) with everything he does and flying was certainly no exception. He actually studied the exit plan as they read through the standard blah-blah 'save yourself, then your kids' speech. At one point, the nice man announced 'if you need any assistance, please contact your flight attendant'. Panic and pandemonium pursued.

'My flight attendant? Hold on. Who's my flight attendant? Is Barbara my flight attendant? Do we have to meet first?'

It was around this point that other passengers were asking their flight attendant to check the shoes on 'that spastic kid over there'.

While Peter was busy freaking out over flight safety, Tom was roaming the apartment searching for 'Pada'. Yeah, that's right - 'Pada'. Tommy the Brain can already say the word 'octopus' but somehow cannot yet say 'Peter' or 'David'. It's okay, though; they're only his big brothers. Just for the record, David is also 'Pada', but after getting clotheslined by 'Pada' this morning, I seriously doubt that he was looking for David.

Tom's lamenting and wailing continued on until lunchtime, where we finally broke down and took him to Burger King. Hey, if the kid's gonna be heart broken and binge-eating, he might as well hang out with his own kind.

After devouring an unHappy Meal, Tom decided to search for his missing brother. I'm not sure why, but I get the feeling that he got slightly distracted at some point.

After half a minute, Tom called off his search and opted instead for a little more 'me time'.

It was eating me up inside to see just how painful Peter's absence was for Tom. Peter was gone, though, and would not be back for a week. An entire week of the same torment and agony that we all had to suffer through today. There was only one hope of dulling the pain long enough to survive this week - champagne.

It was Simone's birthday, so she and Flo stopped by to celebrate. With everyone's thoughts on Peter, it was hard to keep up a party face, but we tried. After the first bottle of bubbly, I started wondering what Peter was doing at that very moment.

Dear Mom,

I miss you so much. I had quite a long flight and somehow managed to scare a few people on the plane. I still don't know what a flight attendant is, but I do know not to start screaming for one shortly before take-off. Anyway, we made it here finally and I thought I would write in my journal how much I miss you. I wonder what you are doing now.

Love,

Peter

As it turned out, Angie was also thinking about Peter at that very moment...

The signs of clinical depression can take many forms and I'm sorry, but this is not one of them. Not by any stretch of the liver. Deep down, though, I'm sure that Angie really missed Peter. So did I, which made me wonder who was cooking for Peter.

I know, I know. He looks sadder than a bastard on Father's day. At least eating crickets and tree bark for a week might make him appreciate Papa's cooking. Hey, maybe I should send Angie on a safari.

I do like that he ordered a beer to wash down his antelope steak and alligator nuggets. His thoughtful consideration almost brought me to tears. I was so moved, in fact, that I performed an ancient African ritual that is supposed to bring back lost children.

I don't actually know any African rituals, so I tried to wing it by sacrificing a virgin, followed by a tribal dance to wake the dead. There were at least two faults with my master plan, though. The first was, Angie is not a virgin. After three children, this should not really come as a shock to any of you. The second problem was, I can't boogie. After seeing me on a dance floor, this should not come as a shock to any of you, either. Disco, techno, tribal... forget it!

In the end we did not manage to wake the dead and bring home our runaway child. We did, however, manage to wake the neighbors and it was clear by their emotions that they missed Peter as well.

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Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: When I played in the pool with Barbara.
David: When I played with Alessio's by pirate party 'cause he had a party.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When I couldn't hear the story with the hyenas.
David: When I can't not play with Alessio no more 'cause I are going.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: I want to look at the animals.
David: Play with Mama 'cause Peter not here now.