There is a market every Sunday at Queen Square. There is a pastry chef at the market. He makes the most wonderful croissants. I bring my father home a croissant. Because I am a thoughtful and considerate and the bestest daughter.
So. I missed the market last Sunday. And I was sad because that meant no croissant (these are truly amazing pastries). But when I visited Dad that evening, we had the following conversation:
Dad: "I went to the market this morning."
"On your own?!"
(Aside: Dad never goes to the market.)
"I went to the pastry place."
Dad went to the market - aw a croissant for me! I thought, naively. Yay, a croissant! Dad went all the way there to get met a croissant! I get to eat one now!!
Me: "Oh yay! Is my croissant in the kitchen? The fridge?"
Dad: "…what croissant?"
"The one you bought for me"
Dad: "I only bought one. I ate it."
"You went all the way to the market to get one croissant?! And you ATE it? Like the whole thing??"
"I didn't think you wanted one. So…I had one for me. Oops. …and no I didn't save you any."
I should explain here that I should have anticipated this. My father comes from a large family and is masterful at the every-man-for-himself mentality, forged in the kitchen of his childhood, where he endeavoured to out-eat his sister and younger brothers with determined ferocity. His preferred strategy was to lick anything edible within reach (saliva-claimed territory), and thus deter more squeamish siblings from touching his horde of food. Meal times in our household were (and are) stuff of family legend. To date, my brother and I have never seen Dad not finish a meal. I mean ever.
You know in Matilda, when Ms. Trunchbull punishes the student by forcing him to eat the entire enormous chocolate cake? A slow and agonizing and sadistically cruel and typically Dahl-esque torture?
In Dad vs. Trunchbull, Dad would win. And still saunter to the cafeteria for lunch. And probably seconds. He is the king.
Context laid. Back to my missing croissant. As I said, I should have anticipated there not being any croissant waiting for me. That would mean that Dad would have to think of someone else's tummy other than his own. That would be an anomaly of gross proportions. (Another aside: this is why my brother and I are convinced that Dad will be the only one to survive the zombie apocalypse. This is what we discuss at dinnertime). Sigh. So I recovered from no-croissant. I chalk it up to Dad honing his zombie-survival skills.
So this week, I went to the market myself. I bought two croissants. One for me and one for Dad (yes, am I not noble?!). I ate mine at the market. Dad's, I brought home. Then I noticed that he only ate half for teatime - the other half he left on the kitchen counter. Aw Dad felt guilty about eating my croissant last week and didn't know I already had one so he is saving me some! That's so nice. Between the time that I thought this, meandered around the house to find my father and explain that I-already-had-one you-can-eat-the-rest you-are-so-kind-though, and found him, HE HAD ALREADY EATEN THE OTHER HALF!! How is that even possible?! "Thanks for leaving me half of the croissant Dad, but I - "
"I already ate it."
Dang croissant ninja.
Happy Father's Day to my Dad. We've been a pain to each other since 1985.