We’re happy to have my wife’s aunt Carmela visiting from Brooklyn.
My wife calls her “Zizzy,” which is a familiar adaptation of “Zia,” meaning “aunt” in Italian.
Zizzy calls my wife “Cara Mia” (My dear one) while I’m known as Cara Mia’s husband.
One day, I hope to receive my own charming appellation, but after 50 years, I’m starting to lose hope.
We’re glad to have Zizzy here if only for her outstanding culinary skills.
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“How ’bout your famous meatballs?” I suggest.
“I already made ravioli,” she replies.
“Then why,” I inquire, “did you ask me for a request?”
“I was hoping you’d say ravioli,” she says.
This routine of inquiring what I’d like for dinner, after already preparing it, is a frequent exercise, but it’s never a disappointment. Not when the menu includes that ravioli, eggplant parmigiana, lasagna, fettuccine Alfredo, homemade pizza, or her signature chicken Marsala.
Turns out her culinary skills make up for her imperfections.
Like her questionable encounters. We try to have her avoid with other humans, but it’s not always attainable.
“Did I hear the doorbell?” I asked after taking my bath.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Who was it?” I inquire.
“I don’t know,” she says, “I wouldn’t open the door.”
“Did you not say anything?” I inquire.
“Yes. I said I’m calling the police.”
“Why did you say that?” I ask.
“That’s what I tell anyone who rings the bell. How do you suppose I survived this long?”
“And do you actually call them?”
“Every time,” she replied.
“And what happens when the police arrive?”
“I don’t know, I don’t open the door.”
That’s when she informed me that I also had a phone call.
“Who was it?” I inquire.
“A man,” she replies.
“Did he give you a name?”
“It started with a J,” she says.
“Was it John?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe Jerry?”
“Yes,” she repeats.
“Then which was it?” I ask, “John or Jerry?”
“I’m not sure,” she answers, “but it was definitely either John or Jerry. Or Francisco.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you couldn’t come to the phone because you were in the tirlet.”
(I should explain here that residents from Brooklyn often refer to the bathroom as “the tirlet,” It’s a common distortion of the word “toilet” and has a dual connotation since a “tirlet” could refer to either the fixture or the bathroom itself.)
“Couldn’t you simply explain that I was taking a bath?” I ask.
“I did,” Zizzy insisted. “I said you were in the tirlet taking a bath.”
Thankfully, this time I was present when the doorbell rang once again. “I’ll get it,” I quickly insisted.
After offering my sincere apologies, along with a sober explanation, I sent the officers on their way.
Erdos is a freelance humor columnist. him at [email protected].
