What I want for Father’s Day? Absolution. For the tenderloin incident. | Opinion
In every marriage small indignities accumulate over the years, even between loving spouses. Trifling acts of unkindness are lost to time and left to linger without apology. These injustices add up, so periodically the slate must be wiped clean.
Father’s Day seems an apt time to do this.
After all, who really needs another golf shirt, necktie or homemade coupon from the kids, one that’s redeemable for performance of unpleasant chores without back sass? At least in my house, the little ones always buried “some restrictions apply” in the boilerplate so as never actually to be put to work.
No, as surely as someone who always works “qua” and “as it were” into conversation is annoying, something more is called for on Father’s Day. What I ask for is not without precedent: The tradition of ceremonial debt cancellation predates even the Hammurabi Code. Apparently the ancient Babylonian king himself occasionally got sideways with Mrs. Hammurabi.
Here’s the proposal: Why not extend a plenary indulgence on Father’s Day to every paterfamilias in extremis for his venial — not mortal — flaws? It’s absolution for the petty annoyances, miscues like an episode known in my household as the tenderloin incident.
Years back one Saturday night, my five children all had plans with friends. Taking advantage of the quiet, my wife, Devin, and I decided to host another couple for dinner. Devin, who can do most anything, prepared a feast for our guests. I, with a lesser skill set, grabbed a quick workout at the gym.
Returning in late afternoon, I noticed two pork tenderloins that weren’t there before. Nothing about these slender and nameless character actors perched atop our range suggested casting in anything meatier than a supporting role. I don’t recall the R&B song playing in the kitchen as I, ravenous, entered. I only know it felt like Otis Redding himself was urging me to try a little tenderloin.
I stabbed the smaller fillet with a fork and, grabbing a knife, a plate, some cheese and a box of Triscuits, prepared a serviceable charcuterie board for myself. Later I was showering for dinner when I heard Devin summon our dog, Rudy, and not in a best-in-show kind of way.
“What is it?” I yelled from behind the fogged glass. “That stupid dog ate an entire tenderloin,” Devin wailed. “He took down half of tonight’s dinner.”
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I processed this dispatch. How could Rudy, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, have gotten up onto the counter? When has Rudy ruined half a meal when a full one was on offer? Might he not have slobbered on the remaining portion? And most pertinent, that was dinner?
My pooch had purloined no tenderloin. I couldn’t let him serve time for my crime. I confessed, noting how delicious it was, which didn’t seem to matter. It made for good conversation later, as I explained to our invited guests why their hosts would eat chili, while they’d enjoy heartier fare.
With her heart of gold, Devin likely has forgiven me, but this way I can use Father’s Day to be sure I’m in the clear. That is, until we have pork tenderloin for dinner again.
Mike Kerrigan is an attorney in Charlotte and a regular contributer to the Opinion pages.
