— Ed, you know who that was at the nametag table?
— No, who?
— Mrs. Pollard.
— Who?
— Sue Pollard’s mum.
— Good Lord.
— She was a cracker, wasn’t she, Ed?
— She was that.
— I loved that woman. I wanted to marry her. I wanted her to be my mom too.
— That’s not how it works, Steve.
— You know what I mean, don’t tell me you don’t. How old were we?
— 12.
— Right. How old was she?
— Somewhere between 30 and 35 I should reckon.
— But she looked so much younger, didn’t she?
— She looked inebriated, most of the time.
— You’d go round to Sue Pollard’s house to play and she’d offer you a drink. And you’d say thanks, and instead of milk or juice she’d hand you a snifter.
— She didn’t want to drink alone.
— She was handy in the kitchen though — you couldn’t fault her. It wasn’t like she was falling down drunk. She always had something baking.
— She was a functional drunk.
— Like us?
— Like us.
— Remember that birthday party where she served that cake and all the kids fell asleep?
— The booze cake! Oh, man.
— Whatever happened to Sue Pollard?
— She got married, like the rest of us. That Wiecher guy.
— Which Wiecher guy?
— Him, over there. The one with the ridiculous suit.
— If he’s here, how come Sue isn’t?
— Divorced, probably. Like the rest of us.
— I hate these things. Why do we come?
— Don’t know. Maybe meet someone.
— Never gonna happen, my friend.
— I really want that recipe for that booze cake.
— Seriously?
— Absolutely.
— Go for it. Ask her.
The Golfer’s Cookbook, Rose Elder, 1977
Also from this book: What A Load Of Bull, If Henry Kissinger Was Petite, Pretty And Black, Clean The Refrigerator Stew
