Being Irish-American in rural America is like being a tadpole in a rainbow aquarium; I fit in somewhere, but I’m not the predominate species. I feel more at home in an ethnic restaurant, where no one really understands half of the words on the menu, because I feel an ethnic kinship to those who may be a little out of place. Some might even call me “special,” although I have always been able to communicate my intentions. The same cannot be said for those who designed the ever-popular and increasingly ubiquitous Chinese zodiac calendar that serves as a placemat for the most evangelistic people group in the world- those who start and run Chinese restaurants…
Several years ago...when a new Chinese restaurant came to the small town where my father and mother lived, I convinced them that we should experiment with new smells. You must understand that this was no easy feat, since my mother's dinner recipes for Chinese usually included a mountain of rice, and a can of this and a can of that. My father, when he frequented the Golden Bull restaurant when I was a child, used to order wonton soup and Moo Goo Gai Pan. In other words, the two of them were set in their ways, and did not venture too far into the world of Chinese cuisine.
Once inside, we were immediately besieged by rapid fire Mandarin. The smell of a sour black sauce and aromas escaping a fire-licked wok. Anemic girls with make-up making them look almost western...staring from a huge calendar on the customer side of a six-foot-tall fridge.
We managed to interpret the disjointed grunts of the aged Chinese lady directing traffic to the dozen tables, finding a comfy spot in what must have been seats out of an old Woolworth's. Their timelessness seemed to comfort my parents but left me with one cheek higher than the other.
So, as we sat waiting for our colorfully described dishes, we pondered the meanings of the assorted Chinese zodiac animals and their accompanying years on the paper placemats in front of us. While I had heard of the Year of The Tiger, and so forth, the mathematical and philosophical applications were a little like Ancient Babylonian, full of mystery.
I discovered that my father was a horse, which meant he spends long hours pulling things around. That didn't seem quite right, as my father had always assigned us kids chores so that he could tackle more pressing issues like basic electricity. The latter involved interjections, mild cussing, and later an assault on the wallpaper.
While I was recalling one particular disaster, my father was avidly reading about the "rat," an animal that he "must avoid him at all costs."
Below my mother’s advice, a strange and distorted series of statements confounded us. After a rude description of my mother’s impeccable character, the zodiac had the nerve to claim that my mother is incompatible with horses…and thus my father. This came, surely, from a man who never spoke to a horse, nor my father. Furthermore, this compendium of wisdom instructed my mother to “stay away from the monkey.” Obviously, the writer had never met my mother. When at the zoo, she took special care to avoid the monkeys, baboons, and chimpanzees. My mother's interest in animals was purely gastronomical alone.
For me, this is not so. I am an animal lover. I have a stomach made of a foreign alloy, since I have ingested iguana in Central America, unpronounceable peppers in the jungle, something called a Beaver Tale in Ottawa, and middle eastern food resembling what the dog ate last night. I have unwittingly ate cat on a skewer rolled in Bisquick, and once had a lion steak…and yes, it never moved. However, there is one thing you will never see me eat…I will always stay away from the monkey…
