When listening to a story one learns just as much about the teller as the tale: The first time I brought your father over to meet my parents, you once told me, he couldn’t stop looking at the place settings, never seen anything as fancy in his life. Your grandmother had wanted to show she was capable in the kitchen, despite her being knockout drunk and never having cooked a meal in her life. Come dessert time, she lifts herself up from the table, dismisses the help, and stumbles into the kitchen. We hear banging and clatter and mumbled curses before she enters the room triumphant, a flaming cherry jubilee that she places in the center of the table. We were halfway through eating when my father asks what she used to light the flames and my mother produces the Sterno can from the other room. We spent the remainder of the evening each in our own separate bathrooms, you say as you turn to me with glowing eyes, we spent the whole evening keeled over the toilet with our fingers down our throats, gagging out that glorious dinner.