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Tex had done the honors, which was the kind of news no one likes to receive when sitting down for dinner, but the doctor had done his best, and with a little help from Chase the two men had managed to cook up a nice batch of… spaghetti bolognese, which happens to be Chase’s specialty, and also just about the only dish he’s mastered in the thirty-two years he’s been a guest on this planet.

“I think you really should try to expand your culinary skillset, Chase,” said Gran as she tried in vain to eat the spaghetti while still looking like a lady. I could have told her that spaghetti is one of those dishes it’s not very pleasant to eat in the company of others, since it not only involves a lot of acrobatics of the mouth but also slithers about to such an extent you can’t eat it without the use of a bib. And we all know that a bib makes any person, unless he’s an infant, look like a complete fool. Lucky for us, cats don’t eat spaghetti. We limit ourselves to the meatballs Chase likes to serve with his signature dish.

“What are you talking about?” said Uncle Alec, whose lips were a bright glistening red from all that bolognese sauce. “The man is a genius.”

“Actually it was Dad who took care of the main food prep today,” said Chase modestly. “I just stood by to lend him a helping hand.”

“Nonsense,” said Tex magnanimously. “You did most of the work, and I can’t thank you enough… son.”

“Thanks,” said Chase happily as he pronged a string of spaghetti and started working it into his mouth then chewing it down with visible and audible relish.

“I mean, you don’t expect your wife to eat spaghetti all her married life, do you?” Gran continued laying out her argument, undaunted by these interludes. “You should buy him a good cookbook, honey,” she told her granddaughter. “Make it a birthday gift, so he can’t claim he didn’t get it, or miraculously ‘lost’ it.”

“I already have all the recipes I need on the internet, thank you very much,” said Chase, “and I intend to start going through them one by one. Isn’t that right, babe?”

“Absolutely,” said Odelia, who was clearly not yet tired of her hubby’s spaghetti making skills.

“I found this YouTube channel called ‘Top Chef in Thirty Days’ and I’m starting with the first video tomorrow. I’ll be preparing a different dish every day. I’m calling it my thirty-day challenge.”

“Well, I just hope you’ve got an ambulance on standby,” said Gran.

“Oh, but Chase is going to get a helping hand from me, isn’t he?” said Tex cheerfully as he raised his glass of wine in honor of his son-in-law—the future ‘Top Chef.’

“Oh, God,” Gran grunted. “You mean we all have to eat—”

“Ma!” Marge interjected.

“Food! I was gonna say food!”

“I think it’s great,” said Scarlett. “This spaghetti is to die for, Chase. It really is.”

“Stick around a couple of days,” Gran muttered. “You might just get what you want.”

“So what’s going on with the Pink Lady?” asked Charlene, eager to change the topic of conversation. She might be a big fan of her boyfriend, but of her boyfriend’s mother, not so much. But then Gran has that effect on a lot of people.

“The Pink Lady is now safely tucked away where no one will ever think to look,” said Odelia.

“In our bedroom, behind the portrait of my gnome,” Tex volunteered.

“Dad!” Odelia cried. “You can’t tell anyone that!”

“Yeah, Tex, what’s the point of all this secrecy if you’re going to blab about it to anyone who will listen?” asked Uncle Alec with a frown.

“I’m sorry,” said Tex, his cheeks a little flushed. “We’re all friends and family here, though, right?”

“Still,” said Uncle Alec. “The walls have ears, buddy. So better keep it under wraps, okay?”

“Fine,” said Tex as he settled back in his chair and took another swig from his wine.

“Max, don’t you think it’s strange that Tex is drinking wine?” asked Dooley.

“And why is that?” I asked.

The four of us were ensconced on the porch swing, our usual spot when the family gathers together of an evening.

“Well, he’s a doctor, isn’t he? And shouldn’t doctors set a good example by not drinking and not smoking?”

“It’s just one glass of wine, Dooley,” said Harriet. “There’s no harm in that, is there?”

“He’s already on his second glass,” said Dooley, “and look, he’s pouring himself a third one!”

“So? One or two glasses won’t hurt anyone.”

“Dooley is right, though,” said Brutus as he studied the doctor closely. “This is already his third glass of wine, and yesterday he drank four during dinner, and he drank a beer while we were watching that Marvel movie together, the one about the guy who looks like a flea. He’s either called Superflea or Fleaman—not sure.”

“I really can’t tell those Marvel movies apart anymore,” said Harriet. “To me it’s just one big movie, and a very boring one. I’d much rather watch something with an actual story. Something romantic.”