The Galloping Gourmet

I can't exactly say that we were greeted warmly. Perfunctory hellos and some thinly veiled hostility from the sweaty, golf-shirt-as-muumuu clad lawn mowing pinhead.

To make matters worse, as is typical of grandmothers houses, at Endora's there is an astonishing lack of distractions to absorb one's fading consciousness.

J. and I decided to head out toward the pool. The New Mrs. Scungili's two sisters were in the shallow end of the pool engrossed in conversation about a disco song they could not recall the name for, so J. and I rolled up our shorts and dangled our feet in the not-yet-warmed-by-summer water toward the deep end.

So now what?

From behind my oversized Charlie's Angels-style sunglasses, I watched the dynamics. Em, for the first time in recorded history seemed to be engaged in some purposeful activity. Something that resembled cooking - or at least prepping. Her brows were furrowed in concentration.

Chuck finished mowing (but not bagging) the patch of lawn, and following his authoritative greeting, set about de-muckifying the grill in an elaborate attention-seeking production. And then took on de-molding, de-leafing and re-positioning the patio chairs. And digging out the market umbrella and table tiles from the cellar. And of course all the burgers and dogs to order were his to prepare.

And frankly, he seemed a little overwhelmed by these things - things that, to be frank, Chuck would have happily, even voluntarily, perhaps jubilantly done for Mommom last year when he was the ass-kissing fiancee.

But now that he was squatting there permanently - numerous rumors that there is some form of "rent" changing hands are unconfirmed; they probably pay in groceries - and he is responsible for doing all of these joyous tasks as the man-about-the-house, he didn't seem to be exactly relishing the duties as assigned. In fact, he seemed a little huffy that Cassie and Lyla and J. and I were enjoying the pool and catching a few rays while he was working up quite a pair of pit stains over it all.

And the cooking. The self-anointed patron saint of finger food seemed to be enjoying it less for some reason. Last year he'd prepare a dish, basque in the glow of compliments and second helpings, and then regale us with his recall of all the nuances of the recipe (it's all in the fresh cilantro...) all with this infuriating overtone of smugness, assuming everyone thought he was America's most eligible bachelor because he could cook. (Puh-lease. It's going to take considerably more than a succulent chicken fricassee to keep me enamored for the long haul, Bobby Flay!)

Curious. Now that some of these tasks had become expectations, some of the joy seemed to be sucked right out of them. Now that bonus points and extra credit weren't being heaped on Chuck for every colorful vegetable kabob and every artfully carved baked potato garnish, his enthusiasm seemed to be waning.

Not quite what he'd expected, methinks.