I got into Tampa anticipating a nice, home-cooked meal. As usual, even my moderate expectations were too high. "We're going out to dinner," my cousin announced as I tossed my carry-on bag into the SUV at passenger pick-up. We looked like a scene out of "Little Miss Sunshine" as I dove into the moving vehicle. Traffic was horrendous and a cop was yelling at us to keep moving. "Why? Where?" I asked. "Because you're here. We were thinking Chili's." Yeah, that's exactly what I had in mind. Why not go to a white trash watering hole in New Port Richey where they serve frozen food lukewarm? I resisted the urge to be candid. My mom once told me that people should be happy when you arrive and sad when you leave on family visits, not the other way around.
So we went to Chili's for dinner. My mom's brother who's visiting from Karachi nodded in the direction of a Bubba who was about to tear into an onion blossom. What is that? He wanted to know. "It's a big deep friend onion in the shape of a flower," I offered. Then he was appalled to see a menu item called "Baby back ribs." My uncle got his M.B.A. at the University of Houston so I wasn't sure why he was acting like such an alien. "They're pork ribs," I said. "How do you know they're not beef?" he countered. "I just do." But why are they called baby back ribs? Anyone? Tomorrow we're going to another suburban mecca. The mall. I like to refer to such outings, especially the ones in the South, as anthropological surveys. I'm sure you're anxious for me to share my observations. However, unlike this post, I'll make sure they're either interesting or amusing before I do. Afterwards, we're supposed to see a Bollywood flick and then have dinner at some doctor's house. The dinner, too, is because I'm visiting. I should be flattered but, instead, I'm already bored. I get to be peppered with questions about why I'm not on CNN or married in tandem. Good times.
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