French Bred - Ch 2 (continued)

As Josy chattered away with her brother and sister-in-law in French (with me understanding nothing), Yolanda was working away in her tiny kitchen. I felt sorry for Josy, and would feel sorrier for her as the weeks went by, because due to my language limitations, she had to translate for anyone and everyone who wanted to talk to me. She also had to translate the other way if I had something to say. So much for everyone speaking English. A universal language? HA! She would eventually tire of acting as the go-between, but she kept at it for my sake.

After a relatively short amount of time, we all gathered around the dining room table for lunch/dinner. I say lunch/dinner because for me it had kind of blended together into a mish-mash of "I have no idea what time it is, what day it is, or where my brain was left." As we all sat down, La Mama brought in heaping bowls of pasta. I was relieved beyond words. At this point in my life, my taste buds were only accepting applications from pizza, burgers, and the like. All offers from any other variety of flavors or textures were refused on sight, and told to try the mouth down the road. But here before me was glorious spaghetti with tomato sauce! I could deal with this, and the amount was just right for a hungry American man. I dug in, and after finishing the bowl I was content. I had made it through my first meal at Maison de Mama. Or had I?

Into the room came a large frying pan with a future-mother-in-law attached to the handle. Within the confines of the pan were sizzling slabs of meat. Chops? After the pasta? I assured Josy that there was no way that I could eat anything after the large bowl of spaghetti that I had put away. Josy understood my situation and tried to explain it to her mother.

Imagine, if you will, that you have just been told that your future son-in-law is an alien from the far reaches of the galaxy who has come to enslave the women of earth and to turn the men into some form of putty which will be used to grout alien bathrooms. That is close to the reaction that swept across Yolanda's face. I didn't need Josy to translate for me at this point. I could easily tell that Yolanda was stunned by my lack of manners and ability to eat a proper amount of food. What kind of man was her daughter marrying? Clearly I was indeed an alien species with only one third of the stomach space of a normal human.

Still, Josy managed to convince her mother that I was full, and everyone else went at their slabs of meat. I had dodged the bullet. Or had I? Oh, no. La Mama wasn't done yet. Somehow, her kitchen was a transdimensional portal from which more food could come out of a space which logically couldn't contain such amounts. Here, from the walking food dispenser, was a huge bowl of salad and a platter of cheese. If I had let my jaw drop the way I felt that it would, it was certain that Yolanda would have shoved a wedge of Camembert into the gaping cave. Instead, I just stared incredulously and had to somehow convince my future mother-in-law that no space had been created in my stomach since the last refusal of food. There was just no way! Again, she glared at me. If she had still been in Sicily, she probably would have snapped her fingers and a member of the famiglia would have taken me for a ride somewhere, and my wife-to-be would have quickly become a widow-to-be. Since we were in France, however, all she could do was drill a hole through my face with her laser-beam eyes and make me feel as though I had dishonored every Italian woman who had ever lived. Believe me...I felt it.