The Second Day of Christmas

The next day I was in fine form, and decided to host a dinner party. Gedas, Rastenis (from hereon “Angele”), and Neringa agreed to come. Cedric and I went out to Rimi, and Norwegian grocery store chain (you wouldn’t know), and bought everything for roast chicken and gravy, corn, and salad (my aunt grows potatoes, so that was all set). Giblets don’t come with chickens here, so I had to by them separately. But you can’t buy a set of them, you can only buy, like, a pound of necks, a pound of livers, and a pound stomachs separately. Nobody makes gravy here. People love my gravy, but if I tell them what it’s made of they are sickened.

We prepped food, including croutons from stale white bread, and watched Brassed Off, with Ewen McGregor, from the makers of Children of the Revolution. Angele called and said he and Neringa weren’t going to eat, and I said, “Blet, are you kidding?”

Soon enough everyone was here, and now Angele said he would eat, but not to be hurt if he doesn’t eat much, cause he’s dreadfully full from eating at relatives’ homes. All right, I said. Angele continued to talk about it: “fuck, man, I don’t know what to do, there so much food and no where to put it, sometimes life is so hard….”

And I replied, “you might consider being more careful what you cry about in life, Rasteni; some people don’t have enough food.” He said he didn’t understand. So I elaborated through mockery: “Oh woe is me, all my relatives gave me so much money for Christmas, what the hell will I do with it all, I don’t know what to spend it on, life is so unfair sometimes…”

Food was ready, and at first we just served salad. It was super, so much so that Angele, full as he was, helped himself to more—quite a compliment. On to the main courses. Gradually, little by little, Angele picked up the pace of his eating, and soon seemed to be eating more than anybody else, with Neringa next to him telling him to slow down or else he’ll be sick. And he fell in love with BBQ sauce, never having tasted it before; he drowned his potatoes in it.

After the food was all gone, I sliced myself some bread and dipped it in leftover gravy. It looked gross, but I insisted it was the best, and Rastenis asked to taste mine. Immediately, then, he cut himself some bread, and then some more, until all the gravy had been consumed in this fashion.

We all started cleaning up, taking dishes back. I walked by the dining room, wherein I noticed Angele, sitting by the table now alone, head tilted back, pouring BBQ sauce directly into his mouth.

Following several remarks about how fat Angele would soon become, he grew anxious and had to smoke a cigarette (he’d successfully quit about two months ago). We went out onto the balcony, everyone smoking, one man, guess who, couching up a lung to everyone’s amusement. Then, to clear his mouth, he tried to spit, but instead of projecting the spit it dribbled all over his shirt. I’m still laughing out loud about it.

I said it then and I’ll say it again: Rasteni, Tu esi mano nebaigantis saltinis! (You’re my never ending well [of ridiculousness])