Tabasco

I swear to god this story is true.

So.........I picked up Mom today at the ALF to take her to a dentist appointment in Port Angeles. On the way back, we went out to lunch. I took her to the place where she and Dad used to always go (when Dad was still driving and both of them didn't throw a fit if they were away from their own bathroom for more than a half hour). I had forgotten about my last experience there (at the restaurant, not the bathroom) until Mom and I walked in and sat down at our table. Then it all came back to me--that horrific lunch. Dad and his chowder.

This happened at least a few years ago. Mom, Dad, and I decided to stop and have lunch. I don't remember the circumstances. Maybe we were coming back from somebody's doctor appointment. I dunno. I remember feeling a little dicey about going out with them. You never know with Dad. Because of his hearing loss, he talks really loud. Because of his Dad-ness, he says some pretty off the wall stuff. Like the time, at the same restaurant, he asked Mom, out loud, if she was wearing a bra, and if she wasn't she should continue not wearing one because he liked her better "free and liberated." Yeah. That was a fun breakfast.

But that was a different story. This one happened, as I said, at least a few years ago. We were sitting at our table eating. Dad had ordered a bowl of clam chowder. Don't remember what Mom and I ordered. Not important. What is important is that Dad was eating his clam chowder, and we were sort of chatting our way through the meal when I glanced over and saw that Dad had put tabasco sauce in his chowder. But......there was a LOT of tabasco! And......there was no tabasco sauce on the table! I was just lifting my gaze to say something like, "Whoa Dad, have some chowder with your tabasco!" when I noticed he was stuffing pieces of napkin into his nostril.

Yep. It was blood.

The tabasco. It was blood. In his chowder. Bright, red (Tabasco Red?) sprinkled liberally and surprisingly artistically, all over the top of his fresh bowl of hot, steamy chowder.

I have to point out here that, this was one of those experiences where you somehow remain amazingly cool as the experience is taking place.

Then you totally freak out later. At least that's what I did.

So I was very cool when I realized Dad's nose had drained blood all over his bowl of chowder. I remember how I calmly raised my right index finger to signal the waitress. She bounced over to the table, completely unaware of what she was about to witness. I pointed to the "tabasco" chowder and asked quietly, "I think we'll be needing a fresh bowl, and a towel." It took that poor waitress under a millisecond to process the evidence--Dad with napkins stuffed up his nostrils; chowder with bright red "tabasco" sauce sprinkled all over it--to figure out what was really happening. And when she did, boy, she moved like lightning. Towels, ice, fresh chowder--it all came quickly and with incredible efficiency.

Anyway...........that's my story. Dad and his chowder. I've never been able to use tabasco since.