My long-lost uncle turned up in the middle of the night. His name was Garabond and he was a notorious swindler and cad, thought to have been killed when his plane went down over the Alps.
He wanted to talk.
"I need to talk," he said as I opened the door.
Okay, he needed to talk. I'm sorry for misleading you a few sentences ago.
"What about?" I hoped it would either be about buried treasure or where he had been for the last 8 years. Mostly the former, but I was going through a pirate phase at the time. But I was mildly curious about his whereabouts during his period of disappearance.
"I'm in love." Not what I'd been expecting. "He's a Nepalese biker I met last year, and we're thinking of getting married, and would you mind making a casserole for the reception?" He paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, also, would you mind telling your father? I lost his phone number and I'd love for him to be at the wedding."
At times like this, it's important to keep your cool. "I can tell him, or you can tell him yourself because he's in the living room." I was 14. This was my parents' house. And I was trying to distract from the fact that I had no idea how to make a casserole.
"Who's at the door?" yelled my mother from the living room.
"Uncle Garabond," I almost said, but my uncle looked terrified.
"They're here? I was really hoping they wouldn't be here." He was rummaging around in his coat.
"Where else would they be?"
"Tell her it's the mailman," Uncle Garabond hissed at me, pulling a large fake mustache from an inner pocket and sticking it to his upper lip, where it hung precariously.
"Um... the mailman?" I said, more to my uncle than my mother. Uncle Garabond nodded as he tried desperately to keep the mustache in place with both hands.
"At this time of night?" my father asked, and I heard him getting up from the couch.
"Special delivery," said my uncle in a muffled voice. Well, the voice was both muffled and in a terrible Cockney accent.
My father came into view, took one look at Uncle Garabond, and said, "No. Son, go in the house. Garabond, go away."
I later learned that my uncle and his Nepalese biker husband had moved to Fresno and opened a tapas restaurant. I sent them a casserole when I learned how to make them. It involved cream of mushroom soup.
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