Hello, my name is Cedric and I’m an alcoholic. Well, not really… actually not at all. But for some reason my mother-in-law believes I am one, and nothing I can say or do will ever convince her otherwise. When she visits us there are two possible scenarios: either the wine rack contains some bottles and she says “Oh my God! You are going to drink all this!” or the rack is empty and she says “Oh my God! You drank it all!” Either way, the conclusion is the same: I must be an alcoholic. No matter that I’ve never been very interested in wine, and that I seldom drink more than one glass at a time. Mai’s wine consumption is in fact larger than mine despite her lighter weight and her Asian genes, but no one ever believes it.
The ultimate irony is that my accuser, Mai’s mom, prepares homemade rice wine with enough alcohol content to disinfect any flesh wound. Last time she gave us a bottle (we attempted to refuse but she wouldn’t take “no” for an answer) we decided it would be best kept in the medicine cabinet. The Vietnamese moonshine stayed there until I found a better use for it: mixed with gas in a car’s tank it boosts the engine performance, a bit like nitroglycerine.
The family is gathered for Thanksgiving. On the table: a huge stuffed turkey and a bottle of wine, which I am asked to uncork since I am considered the expert in such matters. Mai asks: “Mom, do you think Cedric is an alcoholic?” She replies with a loving smile: “Yes, but he can’t help it: he’s French!”
Cedric, 11/02/2011
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