“What’s she doing?” asked Josh. “I don’t know,” I said. We were becoming worried—for ourselves.
“Grandma?” I called. “Coming!” she lied.
Forty minutes passed, then 45, then 50. At last, a full hour after Grandma left for the kitchen, we heard the squeak of the food cart’s wheels. Thirty seconds later, Grandma shuffled back to the table. From the top shelf of the food cart, as promised, she removed an elegant china teapot and three matching cups. From the bottom shelf, she removed three roasted Cornish game hens. I now refer to this tactical maneuver as The Cornish Game Hen Gambit.
“What … what’s that?” stuttered Josh. “Roasted Cornish game hens,” replied Grandma. “They’re delicious,” she added proudly. “But, but, but …” I protested, “we’re stuffed. I thought we were just going to have tea.” “Well, you can’t just have tea by itself,” said Grandma. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, as if I had suggested a BLT, hold the bacon, tomato, and toast. Josh and I were too stunned to argue. Slowly but surely—and, to be sure, savoring every painful, succulent bite—we ate our game hens.
Then we ate the tart. And the pie. And a scoop each of the vanilla and green tea ice creams. “Thank you,” we said a final time, gloriously defeated in body and mind. Grandma had won. Grandma always won. We rose from the table and bowed in deference to the monarch, a natural gesture given that we could no longer stand upright. In defeat, at least, we had found peace.
“Let me know when you’re getting up tomorrow morning,” said Grandma. “I’ll have breakfast ready.”
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