cod liver oil with me. It’ll set you right in no time.”
Perish the thought. As a kid, I was a victim of good ol’ Willetta’s favorite remedy many a time—gotta love my aunt Weeby. Don’t want to go there again.
But Aunt Weeby’s not too far out in left field, either. During my time as a New York gemologist in the famous—or infamous, you choose—diamond district, I achieved a teeny-tiny ulcer problem (times three, but who’s counting?) that disappeared the minute I returned to Kentucky. Go figure. I wind up wrestling the mayhem wrought by two wacky seniors and a blundering cohost, and I heal.
Only me, you know?
Anyway, back to our exotic meal. I try to distract Aunt Weeby by shaking my head, smiling, and taking a bite of the munji-hakh that’s grown cold on my plate. Cold kohlrabi? Who’d a thunk?
But eating foreign food does nothing to put a lid on the tide of murmurs to my rear. A tsunami’s about to wallop us.
Thanks to my trusty spoon, I can see a slender woman in her late thirties elbow the older lady at her side. They put their heads together, and the older one points. The scene is repeated all around the eight people seated round the table. That’s when I hear the dreaded words.
“It is her,” the teenage girl at the far end of their group squeals. “I’m telling you, Mom. It’s the S.T.U.D.’s Andrea Adams. I just looooove her.”
Swallow me, earth. I eat with more single-minded diligence and attention than even a fire-eater at a circus midway show. The older woman looks skeptical. “What would she be doing here? I’ve heard she’s a Christian. She wouldn’t come for Swami Devamundi’s Eternal Growth gathering like everybody else here.”
“Gramma!” the girl cries, exasperated. “Get real. She’s probably on the hunt for treasure. I just told you. We’re talking the Andi-ana Jones. Of gemology. You know.”
Ugh. I hate that name. A gem thief thought she was so smart when she came up with it after what happened to us at a ruby mine little less than a year ago. I thought her just plain awful, and I still do, especially since she blabbed the stupid nickname during an early court appearance.
Ever hear anything dumber? I haven’t raided any ark, lost or otherwise. But it’s my latest cross to bear. Well, together with the cloud of nuttiness that follows my aunt and her best friend. And the gem-dunce cohost.
Oh, okay, okay. I’ll say it. I may have my own problem with tromping into trouble just about every other time I take a step. All by my only-lonely self.
Unlike this time, when I’m minding my business: food.
But once I decide the teen’s companions have chosen to ignore her, and I’m way more than ready to quit cringing, the girl lets out a disgusted-teen kind of sigh—yeah. That loud.
“You know,” she says. “I told you. Margie says her older sister and the girls of Delta Epsilon Zeta say they heard people calling her Andi-ana Jones during that murder trial. Like, she goes all over the world, catches crooks, and brings back all those bling-bling treasures. She’s just awe- some !”
I shovel the food faster than earthmoving equipment on steroids, but to no avail. Before I’ve washed down the last mammoth bite of the yakhni , the female neighbors make their way to my side.
My gulp is none too elegant, but it’d be so much worse to greet fans with a mouthful of mutton, no doubt.
“Excuse me,” the girl says. “I know you’re eating, and my dad said I’d be way rude to come and bug you, but I just had to prove it to my mom and grandmom. You are the Andi-ana Jones of gems, aren’t you?”
I wince, nod, and give a weak smile.
She turns, crosses her arms, cocks out a hip, and smirks. “I told you so.”
The mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry she disturbed your dinner. You’re her favorite TV personality, and she wouldn’t leave us alone until we came over. You are very good at what you do.”
I stand, my on-screen smile at full-watt power.
Perish the thought. As a kid, I was a victim of good ol’ Willetta’s favorite remedy many a time—gotta love my aunt Weeby. Don’t want to go there again.
But Aunt Weeby’s not too far out in left field, either. During my time as a New York gemologist in the famous—or infamous, you choose—diamond district, I achieved a teeny-tiny ulcer problem (times three, but who’s counting?) that disappeared the minute I returned to Kentucky. Go figure. I wind up wrestling the mayhem wrought by two wacky seniors and a blundering cohost, and I heal.
Only me, you know?
Anyway, back to our exotic meal. I try to distract Aunt Weeby by shaking my head, smiling, and taking a bite of the munji-hakh that’s grown cold on my plate. Cold kohlrabi? Who’d a thunk?
But eating foreign food does nothing to put a lid on the tide of murmurs to my rear. A tsunami’s about to wallop us.
Thanks to my trusty spoon, I can see a slender woman in her late thirties elbow the older lady at her side. They put their heads together, and the older one points. The scene is repeated all around the eight people seated round the table. That’s when I hear the dreaded words.
“It is her,” the teenage girl at the far end of their group squeals. “I’m telling you, Mom. It’s the S.T.U.D.’s Andrea Adams. I just looooove her.”
Swallow me, earth. I eat with more single-minded diligence and attention than even a fire-eater at a circus midway show. The older woman looks skeptical. “What would she be doing here? I’ve heard she’s a Christian. She wouldn’t come for Swami Devamundi’s Eternal Growth gathering like everybody else here.”
“Gramma!” the girl cries, exasperated. “Get real. She’s probably on the hunt for treasure. I just told you. We’re talking the Andi-ana Jones. Of gemology. You know.”
Ugh. I hate that name. A gem thief thought she was so smart when she came up with it after what happened to us at a ruby mine little less than a year ago. I thought her just plain awful, and I still do, especially since she blabbed the stupid nickname during an early court appearance.
Ever hear anything dumber? I haven’t raided any ark, lost or otherwise. But it’s my latest cross to bear. Well, together with the cloud of nuttiness that follows my aunt and her best friend. And the gem-dunce cohost.
Oh, okay, okay. I’ll say it. I may have my own problem with tromping into trouble just about every other time I take a step. All by my only-lonely self.
Unlike this time, when I’m minding my business: food.
But once I decide the teen’s companions have chosen to ignore her, and I’m way more than ready to quit cringing, the girl lets out a disgusted-teen kind of sigh—yeah. That loud.
“You know,” she says. “I told you. Margie says her older sister and the girls of Delta Epsilon Zeta say they heard people calling her Andi-ana Jones during that murder trial. Like, she goes all over the world, catches crooks, and brings back all those bling-bling treasures. She’s just awe- some !”
I shovel the food faster than earthmoving equipment on steroids, but to no avail. Before I’ve washed down the last mammoth bite of the yakhni , the female neighbors make their way to my side.
My gulp is none too elegant, but it’d be so much worse to greet fans with a mouthful of mutton, no doubt.
“Excuse me,” the girl says. “I know you’re eating, and my dad said I’d be way rude to come and bug you, but I just had to prove it to my mom and grandmom. You are the Andi-ana Jones of gems, aren’t you?”
I wince, nod, and give a weak smile.
She turns, crosses her arms, cocks out a hip, and smirks. “I told you so.”
The mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry she disturbed your dinner. You’re her favorite TV personality, and she wouldn’t leave us alone until we came over. You are very good at what you do.”
I stand, my on-screen smile at full-watt power.
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