I’m sure every family has that infamous story, the one that is told and retold and retold to the point where it becomes lore. Oftentimes at the expense of one particular family member. My family has one that I very recently reflected on, but I suppose I should first explain the ridiculous chain of events that led me to remember it.
In recent years, I have struggled with severe anxiety issues. It is something for which I have sought (and continue to seek) help, and I’ve gotten much better at dealing with the problem. Something that helps is a system of reasonable expectations and rewards. Regularly letting myself relax and enjoy a treat, whether it is dedicated Netflix time or a bottle of Topo Chico at the end of the day, makes all the difference. Little things like that, things to look forward to, really matter.
Something I always look forward to—a reward I have made into a routine—is a sweet treat from the H-E-B bakery at the end of the week. It is a reward for getting through the week, and I’ve almost turned it into an entitlement. If you do not live in Texas, you are missing out, because the H-E-B bakery is about the only supermarket bakery I’ve come across that actually has good products. For a while, I was on a carrot cake kick for my end-of-the-week treat, but lately, I’ve really been digging their German chocolate cupcake. It’s not too much, but is just enough to satisfy, and it is to die for. You might say I’m in a monogamous relationship with this particular cupcake.
So yesterday, on my way home, I made a stop at H-E-B to pick up the cupcake to which I was so entitled. It has been a particularly stressful week, so I was especially looking forward to that cupcake. I walked in the door, made a beeline for the bakery, and stood in front of the glass case, my mouth already starting to water. As my eyes moved from one cupcake to another and then another, a feeling of dread swept over me. Soon, the worst-case scenario was confirmed—there was no German chocolate cupcake. My dread turned into anger, and I wanted to scream across the counter, “WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE!?!” Then, I quickly came back to earth and remembered that it was just a damn cupcake and that I could get something else. But in that brief moment, something I’d been so looking forward to was taken away.
Then I got some butter pecan ice cream, and all was well with the world again. But on the way home, I remembered the infamous family story I referenced above, this time from a different perspective.
The story took place so long ago and has been told and retold so many times that I can’t remember the exact setting. I do remember that my dad had just gotten home, probably from work. My brother and his wife were visiting, and just before my dad pulled in the driveway, we’d cleaned up a box of donuts that had been in the kitchen. Knowing myself, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the one who grabbed that last donut. We didn’t mean any harm, we were just not very thoughtful, not thinking to save a donut or two for Dad. We were all in good spirits (being full of donuts, I’m sure) as my dad walked in the door, greeted us, and headed straight for the kitchen. Our happy chatter was then interrupted by the sound of the empty donut box being hurled across the kitchen, undoubtedly sending crumbs and sprinkles to the floor like rain. Something I should mention is that my dad did not swear. It was not just a matter of him not swearing in front of the kids—he really, truly did not swear. So as the donut box flew through the air, he thundered, “CONFOUND IT! WHO ATE ALL THE DONUTS!?!” A quote that would live in infamy.
My dad was generally a soft-spoken, patient guy, not very quick to anger. The reaction to the empty donut box (the fact that we didn’t even bother to throw the box away and instead left it deceptively sitting on the counter probably just added insult to injury) seemed to come out of nowhere and shocked us all into silence. And then laughter. We laughed for years about it, bringing the incident up again and again, regurgitating the quote ad nauseam. Even my dad was able to laugh at it eventually. It still comes up occasionally, after all these years. I’m actually surprised the story didn’t make it into my dad’s eulogy.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to respect and admire my parents more and more—as is the case with many of us, I’m sure. More than that, I’ve come to understand many things they did and said that did not make sense at the time. Basic life experience will do that. I always interpreted the donut incident as a gross overreaction to a petty offense. And I always thought it was silly that an empty donut box was enough to bring my dad to the boiling point.
As hard as I think I work on this path I’ve chosen in life, it pales in comparison to the literal sweat, toil, and stress my dad lived daily. He spent most of his working days a laborer, busting his ass all day in a factory. His hands, which were as rough and calloused as I’ve ever seen, told the story. He never complained. Nor did he treat himself to much except a cigarette or a beer. On that particular day, I don’t know how much he was looking forward to that cake donut with chocolate frosting, or whatever donut he thought he was going to eat when he walked to the kitchen. But judging from his reaction, probably more than a little. Hell, he’s probably the one who bought the donuts, and not only did we eat them all, but we laughed about it.
My stupid little inner turmoil over the German chocolate cupcake yesterday brought with it a weird, unexpected moment of empathy for my dad, who never asked for much but was so looking forward to that “little thing” at the end of the day. If he were alive today, I think I’d send him a box of Krispy Kremes to make amends. But I can’t, so I hope wherever he is has complimentary donuts. He deserves them, confound it.
What do you want to kibitz about tonight?