Family Meal

It was an absurd moment in a surreal weekend.  There I was, sitting in a minibus in my nice black dress, trying to balance all that was going on.  My cousin had ordered bento boxes for lunch and I was trying to eat mine.  We were having bentos with fried chicken drumsticks that were actually packaged separately, because they don't fit in the box.  There was no way to properly wield the chicken except to use my hand and try not to get any greasy bits on my face or dress.  But I also had to hold the box, work my chopsticks, balance the rest of the box (which required suspending the drumstick so it wouldn't cover the rest of the food), and keep my drink in place as the driver hit every bump along the way.  As luck would have it, I only had 2 hands.  

Being a part of an extended family, to me, feels like wearing glasses.  Like the new or occasional glasses wearer, I am always acutely aware of being with my extended family because it happens so rarely.  I imagine the rest of them hardly notice the feeling.  For me, it takes some adjustment every time.  Whenever we have big gatherings, I catch myself thinking, "so this is what a big family, my family, feels like."  The feeling reached a crescendo a week ago, eating lunch en route to my grandfather's burial.  Since the cemetery was a long drive away (they are almost always in the mountains in Taiwan and the burial was only for family members), 17 of us packed into a mini-bus for the journey and shared the tragicomic moment..  All of us (eh, most of us) were in our Sunday bests, trying to balance the least fast-food-friendly-meal-ever, all the while passing straws, napkins, and drinks up and down the aisles.  Writers always think their families exceptional.  And I'm pretty sure my family drama is exceptional.  But at that moment-- bickering, joking, catching up (some with more ease than others)-- we were just like any other family.