Funeral potatoes, Marjorie says. Yeah, for the funeral of anyone who eats this crap regularly.
Geraldine is not one to hoard her recipes. You take a package of frozen hash browns, add sour cream, cream of chicken soup, onion flakes, and grated cheddar. Then you sprinkle crushed cornflakes on top and bake.
Seriously? There is not one ingredient in this dish I consider to be food. Maybe the cheese, but it’s probably the super-processed kind.
Yummy. My mom makes this too. Cleo gives me an evil smile. Make sure you give Roy an extra helping. He needs a lot of calories to maintain that amazing body.
Geraldine’s eyebrows go sky-high at this suggestive remark, and I get a triple helping of death gloop. As far as I know, Cleo has zero knowledge of my body, but apparently this is all part of the fake-relationship game.
You deserve nothing less, baby, I drawl. There are only two rules for this fake relationship, and I’ve broken both of them in under an hour. What is it about Cleo that inspires this contrariness in me?
Thankfully, the other side dish is green beans with butter and almonds. They taste canned, but at this point I’m really happy to eat anything that isn’t slathered in trans fats. I’d like to be polite, but there’s no way I can finish all the potatoes. I offer to take the plates into the kitchen so I can discreetly scrape off my leftovers.
You didn’t like my potatoes? Geraldine eyes my plate accusingly.
Sorry. There was just so much.
Well, don’t worry. I know you’re both athletes, so we’re having a salad next, she says.
I return to the dining room, where Cleo is talking women’s hockey in her loudest voice. We’re two points out of first place. You should come and see a game.
Marjorie nods. Maybe I’ll get Mats to sit with me and explain everything.
I’d like to, but Cleo and I usually have games at the same time. One night of this torture per week is enough. I’ll already need an extra workout to sweat out this dinner.
Let me check the schedule, Cleo yells as she pulls out her phone, then lowers her voice. Poor baby. Bet you’ve never even bothered to attend a Minks game.
I grit my teeth. As I said, our games are usually in conflict.
I’ve never been one of those guys who insists that only men’s hockey is real hockey, so this insult feels unnecessary. But Cleo doesn’t really know me personally, she has an impression based on lies and appearances.
Aha! Great news, Cleo says loudly. Two weeks from now, the Minks have a Friday night game. And the men’s games are on Saturday and Sunday.
It’s a date, then, Marjorie affirms.
I sigh internally. I suspect that Cleo already knew the schedule before even suggesting this. So, this is what it’s like to have a nemesis. It seems more exciting in James Bond movies.
Geraldine reappears with a crystal bowl filled with something creamy and white.
Snickers salad, she announces proudly.
What the actual fuck? This looks like a caramel sundae topped with chopped Snickers bars.
Um, what makes it a salad? I wonder.
It has apples in it, Geraldine explains.
Roy loves apples, Cleo announces. And I’m rewarded with a double serving.
Luckily, the end of dinner also marks the end of our visit. Marjorie claims she has an early bedtime, but I suspect she also has a routine that involves watching some TV show at 7:30, since we’re once again ushered out well before then.
As we drive away, I wonder idly who shovels the paths and driveways, which are always clear. I can’t imagine Geraldine atop a snowblower.
Snort.
I look over and Cleo has a hand over her mouth. When our eyes meet, a huge laugh breaks out of her.
What? I ask.
