Christmas in Queens

There's something rather unique about Christmas in Queens. We travel there for every major holiday (and a few sundry birthday celebrations) to enjoy the company of a trifecta of uber-geriatrics (ages 88 through 95). These women are as mentally sharp as any 20 year old. They are physically slowing down as would be expected, but the rhetoric is as barbed and unexpected as always. As we sat down to a meal of pierogi, stuffed pasta shells with red sauce, ham, the potatoes au gratin I made last night, kielbasa, the holy trinity of steamed root vegetables, cole slaw and horseradish, the conversation started.

We talked about conservative politics, John Kerry's wife, Joan Rivers' plastic surgery, homeless shelters in New York City, David Letterman and Tiger Woods (which promoted Aunt Bert to blurt at Fang--the sole male at the table--"Why do men cheat?" He was at a loss for words). We mused about New York in the 1950s, automats and Chock Full of Nuts' date nut bread. We talked about The Jets and their rotten season, the renewed hope for the Mets, disgraced relatives, Sarah Palin's new book, the deranged woman tackling the Pope at Christmas Eve mass, the Catholic church and pedophile priests, Bert's visit to Jerusalem in the 1980s, bad neighbors, Mayor Bloomberg, Healthcare Reform, the Great Depression, St. John the Divine church in Manhattan and acupuncture. The food results may always be mixed, but the conversation is always delightfully engaging.

And in the course of that conversation lurks a zinger. It's usually Bert who delivers the zinger (she of that famous conversation this summer). At the end of our meal, she started to talk about her late husband ("God rest his soul") Stanley. She said he had been diabetic towards the end of his life and had to inject insulin twice a day. Fang and I were dumbfounded--we had no idea. "Really?" I asked, "how did you know?" And here the story unwinds.

"Well," Bert started, "we went to Florida for the holidays. Those people can't even decorate for the holidays. Not even a palm tree. While we were there, Stanley had an insatiable appetite. He was always hungry, always looking for more to eat. That wasn't our Stanley. Our Florida neighbor, Girlie Stein, told me that it was diabetes. I was shocked. When we came home, Stanley's doctor noticed that his entire penis was bright red. It was confirmed: diabetes."

Basia, Fang and I were in the kitchen washing dishes listening to the conversation. When Bert mentioned the red penis, we all stopped short and stared at one another with wide eyes. This was yet anther first. The woman is almost 90 yet never stops surprising us.

While I may joke about the bland/dried quality of the food, I have to say--the company is always priceless.