A conversation with Dad

My father is coming to East Africa for the first time early February. To get him upbeat and excited about the trip, I've been giving him a daily sprinkling of cool aspects of daily life in Kenya. Here is this morning's tidbit:

Me: "Dad, Dad, so in Kenya, one of the cool things you'll need to try are the  hard-boiled eggs with pilipili."

Dad: "Pilipili, huh?"

Me: "Yeah, there are these vendors that stand out on the street. They carry with them these huge plastic containers full of freshly boiled, hard-boiled eggs."

Dad "Uhuh."

Me: "When you order one from them, they have this neat way of grabbing you're selected egg with a plastic bag and pealing it without having ever touched the egg with their bare hands. So it's sanitary, you see, Dad?"

Dad: "Yup, gottit, so what's the big deal about the egg?"

Me: "Well, after they peal your egg, they slice it open with a knife, sprinkle it with salt, and then cover it with this spicy salsa that is just to die for."

Dad: "And then what?"

Me: "Then you eat it."

Dad: "What about the broken shells?"

Me: "They throw those on the ground."

Dad responds by raising an eyebrow in disapproval about people throwing eggshells on the ground part, as opposed to in the garbage or compost (love my Dad for that - he's so GREEN).

Me: "Yeah, but anyway, Dad, the egg and salsa...it's really good."

Dad: "Hymm, well how do you eat it?"

Me: "Just like that, Dad. They just give it to you in the plastic bag they've been using to prep your egg."

Dad: "They don't give you a fork and knife?"

I take a moment to study Dad's expression. No humor there. That was a serious question. I smile, "no fork and knife, Dad. You just pop the egg in your mouth. 2 or 3 bites and you're done! You'll love it, don't worry."

Dad: "Hymph. We'll see." Then he lightens up a bit, "I might have difficulty eating something like that though." He turns and gives me his famous I-just-made-a-joke-grin, "my whiskers would get in the way!" He chuckles to himself and walks away.

For all his idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, my Dad cracks me up more than any human being on the planet. He and I drive each other nuts sometimes, but you know how it is... Our parents are the ones who raised us, have seen us at our most ashamed, proud, emotional, what have you. They've been there to help us clean up the pieces after this or that relationship, to boast on our behalf and pull the curtain when we're not doing so hot. Our love for, and dedication to them runs so deep that not even the most bitter of disagreements or longest periods apart can change how much we care for them. So as much as I have certainly learned the importance of deep, chaturanga breathing during Dad's emotional moments, I adore him to pieces. And by the way, for the record, you will never see a smile on face in your direction if you mistreat him. Treat him like gold however and I will love you, bending over backwards in your times of need.