Sarcasm, With a Side of Rice

Sarcasm, With a Side of Rice

I'd always thought my Bordeaux-dry, relentless, sarcastic sense of humor was one I melded myself through years of practice. This weekend I found out that it may indeed be a genetic trait, one handed down to me by my father's genes.

The Arthus family has a reunion once every summer, where all Arthus families (in the tri-state area) get together in a loud, bustling, name-forgetting four-hour get-together in which we all practice the effectiveness of our speed-dating prowesses.

The past four or five years, we've held the Arthus reunion at my dad's house. While it's not centrally-located, it is the house that can most easily accommodate 50 or more Arthi. We call in the Italian caterers, a restaurant with a name that escapes my memory, and sometimes call in The Ground Round for a couple trays of wings and ribs.

Grandma handles the desserts, and usually brings a dish or two in addition to the smorgasbord we've already supplied. On occasion, Aunt Sue brings a batch of her ridiculously awesome rice pudding.

Here's where my story comes together. I'm a tremendous fan of rice pudding. A bunch of years ago, I mentioned to Aunt Sue how much I enjoyed her rice pudding recipe. Every year since then, she would bring me a personal batch of the addicting white stuff for me to take back to college or stash in the basement fridge, accessible only by myself.

Last year, Aunt Sue forgot her tradition. She arrived empty-handed, and I was heart-broken. Was I no longer to be treated with any sort of special preference, just because I had finally lived a quarter-century? I mentioned my disappointment, and got on with my life.

This year, Aunt Sue showed me that my very own sense of humor and sarcasm has roots. She arrived at the Arthus family reunion last weekend and immediately summoned me to the kitchen.

"Here."

"Is this what I think it is?"

It was. And it was eight pounds worth.

Zack, my thirteen-year-old brother, heard and saw the commotion. As soon as he looked at the white plastic shopping bag camouflaging my personal stash of 4,480 glorious glimmering rice granules and sugar, I snapped at him, "this is MINE!"

The rice pudding has successfully made the trek from Glen Cove, Long Island to East Haven, CT. I've had it for dessert four nights in a row now, and, the picture above shows the dent I've made. I should have left some home.

I wanted rice pudding, and I got it.