A fictional story, part one
By Morgan Hannah, Life & Style Editor
My parents were the envy of the block. They were simply the best. The funniest, most loving, and wisest parents ever. My father was a relentless self-proclaimed wine expert from Germany, and when I say Germany, I mean the little Bavaria Haus he managed—where he swirled and twirled wine across his palate every day. My mother was probably about the only New Yorker who didn’t model herself after the Energizer Bunny. She fancied herself as a life coach instead, the kind you’d hire if you were interested in acquiring another mother. And I was the result of a night of liquefied Viagra and Bronx romance. Yeah, we were a pretty happy family.
My father would always be lost in his shop and every time the bell atop the door chimed, he’d slide out from the back, cheeks red and shiny like the skin of ripe fruit, eager to pair his customers up with good wine. He gave Santa a run for his money with how jolly he always seemed.
My mother was a very smart woman, she liked to teach me. One of my favourite lessons was when she taught me about logic. She’d always say, “if you fall off that swing and break your neck, you can’t go to the store with me.” She also had a degree in medicine: “If you don’t stop crossin’ your eyes, they’re gonna freeze that way.”
People would often tell me I’m lucky to have such parents, and that they must just liven up the dinner table with the most interesting things—like the time my father brought home his favourite German Riesling, a 2009 Willi Schaefer Spatlese. He’d pop the cork, pour himself a healthy glass, and proceed to describe the wine: “verbena, aloe vera, melisse, lemon balm, and finally the typical apple. A palate that is shady and cool, though more overtly mineral than usual, but with a finish that crescendos into a salty tide that clings and doesn’t quit.”
People blazon that I am fortunate to have parents so caring and thoughtful, and I guess that’s true. After all, if it weren’t for my mother I’d never know to think ahead: “If you don’t pass your spelling test, you’re neva’ gonna get a good job,” and she was thoughtful enough to teach me extrasensory perception: “put your sweater on, don’t chu think I know when you’re cold?”