Onion Tears

Remember, this is my Dad we are talking about so can you please make an effort NOT to antagonise him this time?

I stopped, midway from lugging a million baby things out of the car and rolled my eyes whilst making a flubbery noise with my lips.

Of course, darling. I will be on my best behaviour.

Thank you, now let's go in.

We gathered the children and their massive baggage train and headed in to my father in-law's.

We had popped up to the bitter Highlands of Scotland to have lunch with her father, who lived up in the North Eastern marshes.

It had been a while since we had visited and the good lady was feeling a tad guilty hence the fantastic hungover Sunday drive for me.

Historically, me and the father in-law have never got on well. Perhaps it's the fact that he is from the North and I the South? Perhaps he envies me my rampant masculinity?

Whatever it is, he and I often clash.

But not today. Today I was on orders from the good lady. Best behaviour... Or else.

So I sat, the polite BoomDawg. I remembered my please's and my thank you's. When I had to use the toilet I refrained from peeing in his soap dish.

All in all, I was quite proud of myself.

Then the lunch came.

An old family favourite.

Chuckled the tall, big-bearded father-in-law.

Oh yes, what is it?

I inquired pleasantly as if I wasn't idly imagining beating him with a short length of rubber hose.

It's chicken and onion soup, just like we used to always have. Eh!

He smiled fondly at his daughter, the good lady.

I smiled too. Then I looked down at the soup that had been bought out.

It was a weird greyish-green with odd looking lumps floating menacingly within. A film of oil slicked the outside of the bowl.

I did my able best not to boak.

The good lady caught my eye. Her gaze was witheringly stern. Eat the fucking soup it seemed to say.

What was a man to do?

I ladled a spoonful of the greasy slop into my mouth. As the soup's odd texture touched my inner mouth parts, I had to fight not to retch and barf at the foulness of the stuff.

I faltered at the next spoonful until the good lady set her burning stare on me once more.

Once again, I heaved a spoonful up to my mouth. This time there was something even worse hiding in the liquid. A sharp and soggy vinegary thing.

I am no stranger to cooking, I knew what I was dealing with.

I nodded politely at our host.

Tell me, are those pickled onions in the soup?

My voice said it all, it was pleading for the answer to be no. I mean, who the fuck in their right mind's would make chicken and pickled onion soup!?

The old man looked at me defiantly and proudly at the same time.

Aye, picked onions. Lovely, eh?

The good lady kicked me under the table.

Yes, mmmm. Delicious!

I gasped.

The good lady smiled. Her old Dad smiled.

I did my best to pretend to smile. Then set myself as best as I could to disengage my taste buds from my brain for the next half an hour.

Chicken and pickled onion soup...?

The things we do for love.