My FB friend Brian, vented last night after his wife told him that she had made a special recipe for dinner, one from his own dear Mother's cookbook. One that his wonderful wife didn't know that he absolutely hated...the dreaded Tuna casserole.

I had to reply:

Yes Brian, My mother made tuna casserole too...and yes, I hated it. But in a particularly diabolical act one night she brought home chocolate eclairs for dessert. Early on, my Mother was something of a health nut, before such people were out of the closet. We never, I mean never, had dessert or sweets or Cokes, etc. Except for Dad who lived on Cokes, Camels, and stress from his law practice in Manhattan. But the rules didn't apply to him, he was the breadwinner (or Coke and Camels winner) So anyway, I guess Mom had been discouraged by the reaction of my sibs and myself to her “Tuna Surprise” night. The only potential surprise would have been if any of us had eaten that nasty stuff. But we didn't. And then, that one emotionally scarring night, the eclairs showed up.

Hello! Naturally the caveat was that we had to “clean our plates” before we could dig into the eclairs that spun slowly on our Lazy Susan whenever anyone passed the salt and pepper. They taunted me on that carousel, put thumb to nose and gave me the raspberries. Like a stuck-up hottie, they let me know that I would never get my lecherous hands on them. And they were right. Mom stayed vigilant to be sure that that none of us was going to slip tuna surprise to our fat Beagle under the dining room table. Dad just smoked, sipped his Cokes and could care less if we ate the tuna, the eclairs, or the candles. At dinner, it was Mom's world. And dammit, she won. I ate no tuna and no eclairs that night. Maybe that's why now that I'm even older than my father was then, I'll occasionally buy a four pack of fresh eclairs and eat them all in a disgusting frenzy before I even get out of the Publix parking lot. All I know is that way back then when I checked the frig for eclairs the next morning, they were gone, and dad looked just a little bit fatter and happier as he sat with us at the breakfast table, sipping coffee, and burning a Camel between two nicotine stained fingers. Wearing his pinstriped suit of armor with a matching tie, he was braced and ready for the commute into the city to fight the dragons and earn Mom's favor. He was well prepared. After all, he was supercharged on Cokes, Camels, and a six-pack of eclairs, at least one of which was supposed to have been mine.