Remember me to one who lives there
I told this story several times yesterday, backstage and on, quietly and not-so, making it sound period when needed, and figured it's worth the writing down.
I have known the lovely and talented chuckmckeithan for almost 24 years. My brain is insisting that this CANNOT be right, but simple math tells me that it is, I met him sometime in the Spring of 1990, at a St Brigid's rehearsal. He was a friend of some friends, seemed pleasant enough, kind of cute, but I had no idea that he would eventually be one of my favorite people in the world.
Some years after we met, we were both with our respective then-future spouses, and I read Penn and Teller's book How to Play with Your Food. One of the chapters was not a magic trick, but was instead a description of The Parsley Game. It's quite simple. When one is in the sort of restaurant (there used to be a lot more) where you get a sprig of parsley (any garnish will do, but calling it The Parsley Game rolls nicely off the tongue), you simply toss your parsley onto one of your dining companions' plates without being noticed. That's all. You're not caught, then they realize it's there, and you've won.
As with all the best games, the rules are simple, but strategy is all. According to Penn & Teller, they were once dining with a couple of friends, everyone in Full Parsley Defense Position, hands on either side of the plate, everyone making conversation with eyes locked on their own food when a car crashed through the plate-glass window in front of the restaurant everyone else ran screaming, but the players of The Parsley Game didn't MOVE, because they were all sure that this accident (fortunately with only property damage) was simply a distraction from another player of The Parsley Game.
So, Charles and I got PARTICULARLY good at The Parsley Game and distraction, and it was, after a few months of play, nigh impossible to get parsley on either of our plates without our knowledge. We both fed the other dishes made with parsley, but it didn't really work, because the other would ask "Does this have parsley in it?" even in dishes that do not traditionally contain greenery. It's not a win if the other person sees it coming.
Fast-forward several years. I got married, and the best man (that's Our Charles) lead the traditional decorating of our car, and literally FILLED our back seat with fresh parsley.
Not too long after that, he and his then-wife went to Ireland with a play he was in, and we knew that her mother is house-sitting, feeding the cats. We told her (truthfully) that we were going to clean house for them, and could we please borrow the keys. "What good friends they have!" said Charles' then mother-in-law. We DID clean the house, and your suspicions are incorrect (though it did occur to me that we could bring new meaning to the phrase "bed of parsley."), even going into the spice-rack, emptied the parsley jar and replaced it with green M&M's. Then we left a note that said "There is absolutely NO parsley in this house," which, according to Charles, left him searching the garage for several days.
The following spring, I checked our answering machine, and I have seen Charles' stern-yet-trying-not-to-laugh expression over the years often enough to picture it perfectly, "So, I was pruning the roses, and there was this weed that I didn't recognize...at first. Good job, you guys. Goooooood job. Love you."
Mostly, we were done, though there was an occasion, years later, when three of the four kids we've had between us were born and Charles and I were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, neither of us in Full Parsley Defense Position because we knew that only each other were viable competitors, and we could see each other across the table , when I heard "Beth, look at your plate" from Charles' left. There was his then-six-year smirking a Dad-like smirk, and there was extra parsley on my plate.
Not long after, we stopped seeing parsley at restaurants, and it mostly became a reference. But, over the week, Charles mentioned that he needed a sprig of holly for his costume, and miss_mimsy and I happened grocery store on the way to Dickens on Friday morning. Parsley is cheap and plentiful. When we got to the Fair, I sent a telegram ("You want to send it with parsley?" asked the lady taking my order.) that said:
"My dear Sir,
Holly is difficult to procure, there having been a run on it at this festive season of the year. Hope this will suffice.
Yours in service,
P."
Later that day, I saw Charles, glanced at his buttonhole and brightly chirruped "What a festive sprig of greenery!"
"Yes," stern hiding smile. "What an excellent start to this years...games.
"It doesn't have to be a game." My fear was mostly mock. "You could take it as a charming "Welcome back.'"
"Ohhh, no, the game's on. I have Cratchits on my side."
"I gave birth to one of them, and the little ones worship her. Besides...I. Have. Whores."
What to do? Must do something. I slept on it, came up with nothing fabulous. But really, the planning took all of a few seconds. I was looking at the remaining parsley (there are a lot of sprigs in a 79c bunch) in my backstage, and the Costermongers started coming in. Historically, the Costers sold things on the streets, were mostly related to each other and no-one crossed them, like a Cockney Cosa Nostra. Except for mostly not being real-life being related, the Costers at Dickens Fair are similar. I went over, asked if anyone was up for a prank (rhetorical question) distributed parsley and gave a description of Charles. I also got the help of mutual friends, some working, some visiting, and, as threatened, my Cratchit daughter got the help of smaller Cratchits.
However, by midday, only one of the Costers let me know that "I put it in his hand, and he looked confused, then smiled" and one of our visiting mutual friends said "Mission accomplished." I figured that most people hadn't seen him or hadn't recognized him, but a couple parsleyings would make the point. when there he came, toward me at Sal's. He took off his hat, the band of which was festooned in greenery. "I shouldn't have attacked you on your home turf, I admit defeat. Really, it's gotten to the point that whenever someone says 'Hello,' I just hold out my hand for it, I'm sorry."
Thank you everybody, and thanks especially to Charles for past, present and future friendship.
I have known the lovely and talented chuckmckeithan for almost 24 years. My brain is insisting that this CANNOT be right, but simple math tells me that it is, I met him sometime in the Spring of 1990, at a St Brigid's rehearsal. He was a friend of some friends, seemed pleasant enough, kind of cute, but I had no idea that he would eventually be one of my favorite people in the world.
Some years after we met, we were both with our respective then-future spouses, and I read Penn and Teller's book How to Play with Your Food. One of the chapters was not a magic trick, but was instead a description of The Parsley Game. It's quite simple. When one is in the sort of restaurant (there used to be a lot more) where you get a sprig of parsley (any garnish will do, but calling it The Parsley Game rolls nicely off the tongue), you simply toss your parsley onto one of your dining companions' plates without being noticed. That's all. You're not caught, then they realize it's there, and you've won.
As with all the best games, the rules are simple, but strategy is all. According to Penn & Teller, they were once dining with a couple of friends, everyone in Full Parsley Defense Position, hands on either side of the plate, everyone making conversation with eyes locked on their own food when a car crashed through the plate-glass window in front of the restaurant everyone else ran screaming, but the players of The Parsley Game didn't MOVE, because they were all sure that this accident (fortunately with only property damage) was simply a distraction from another player of The Parsley Game.
So, Charles and I got PARTICULARLY good at The Parsley Game and distraction, and it was, after a few months of play, nigh impossible to get parsley on either of our plates without our knowledge. We both fed the other dishes made with parsley, but it didn't really work, because the other would ask "Does this have parsley in it?" even in dishes that do not traditionally contain greenery. It's not a win if the other person sees it coming.
Fast-forward several years. I got married, and the best man (that's Our Charles) lead the traditional decorating of our car, and literally FILLED our back seat with fresh parsley.
Not too long after that, he and his then-wife went to Ireland with a play he was in, and we knew that her mother is house-sitting, feeding the cats. We told her (truthfully) that we were going to clean house for them, and could we please borrow the keys. "What good friends they have!" said Charles' then mother-in-law. We DID clean the house, and your suspicions are incorrect (though it did occur to me that we could bring new meaning to the phrase "bed of parsley."), even going into the spice-rack, emptied the parsley jar and replaced it with green M&M's. Then we left a note that said "There is absolutely NO parsley in this house," which, according to Charles, left him searching the garage for several days.
The following spring, I checked our answering machine, and I have seen Charles' stern-yet-trying-not-to-laugh expression over the years often enough to picture it perfectly, "So, I was pruning the roses, and there was this weed that I didn't recognize...at first. Good job, you guys. Goooooood job. Love you."
Mostly, we were done, though there was an occasion, years later, when three of the four kids we've had between us were born and Charles and I were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, neither of us in Full Parsley Defense Position because we knew that only each other were viable competitors, and we could see each other across the table , when I heard "Beth, look at your plate" from Charles' left. There was his then-six-year smirking a Dad-like smirk, and there was extra parsley on my plate.
Not long after, we stopped seeing parsley at restaurants, and it mostly became a reference. But, over the week, Charles mentioned that he needed a sprig of holly for his costume, and miss_mimsy and I happened grocery store on the way to Dickens on Friday morning. Parsley is cheap and plentiful. When we got to the Fair, I sent a telegram ("You want to send it with parsley?" asked the lady taking my order.) that said:
"My dear Sir,
Holly is difficult to procure, there having been a run on it at this festive season of the year. Hope this will suffice.
Yours in service,
P."
Later that day, I saw Charles, glanced at his buttonhole and brightly chirruped "What a festive sprig of greenery!"
"Yes," stern hiding smile. "What an excellent start to this years...games.
"It doesn't have to be a game." My fear was mostly mock. "You could take it as a charming "Welcome back.'"
"Ohhh, no, the game's on. I have Cratchits on my side."
"I gave birth to one of them, and the little ones worship her. Besides...I. Have. Whores."
What to do? Must do something. I slept on it, came up with nothing fabulous. But really, the planning took all of a few seconds. I was looking at the remaining parsley (there are a lot of sprigs in a 79c bunch) in my backstage, and the Costermongers started coming in. Historically, the Costers sold things on the streets, were mostly related to each other and no-one crossed them, like a Cockney Cosa Nostra. Except for mostly not being real-life being related, the Costers at Dickens Fair are similar. I went over, asked if anyone was up for a prank (rhetorical question) distributed parsley and gave a description of Charles. I also got the help of mutual friends, some working, some visiting, and, as threatened, my Cratchit daughter got the help of smaller Cratchits.
However, by midday, only one of the Costers let me know that "I put it in his hand, and he looked confused, then smiled" and one of our visiting mutual friends said "Mission accomplished." I figured that most people hadn't seen him or hadn't recognized him, but a couple parsleyings would make the point. when there he came, toward me at Sal's. He took off his hat, the band of which was festooned in greenery. "I shouldn't have attacked you on your home turf, I admit defeat. Really, it's gotten to the point that whenever someone says 'Hello,' I just hold out my hand for it, I'm sorry."
Thank you everybody, and thanks especially to Charles for past, present and future friendship.