The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee by Barry Jonsberg Page A

replied. I had never received so many apologies in such a short time.
    â€œI’ve made dinner,” I said. “Dad is sitting at the table and all we need is you. I cooked jambalaya.
Votre
favorite.” I strung out the last syllable of
favorite
so it would sound French, but I think it came out more like Mexican.
    Mum, obviously puzzled, swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her robe. It was not formal wear, but I wasn’t going to push my luck. I decided against giving her a beret on the grounds there would be a clash of styles. She put a hand against her eyes and shuffled out the door.
    Dad cut a dashing figure with his string of onions and the beret. Mum took one look at him and stifled a laugh.
    â€œWhat is going on?” she asked.
    â€œA French-themed
déjeuner
,” I said, putting on my own beret and necklace of onions. Actually, they were incredibly powerful. The onions, not the berets. I worried that Dad and I would spend the evening crying softly into our jambalaya, but it was worth the risk.
    I lit candles and turned up the volume on the stereo. A plaintive saxophone swirled through the air. Well, actually it didn’t. That could only happen in a Harry Potter movie. The
sound
of a plaintive saxophone swirled through the air.
    â€œWhat have you done to your hands?” asked Mum.
    â€œThe latest in oven gloves,” I replied. I opened a bottle of wine and poured glasses for Mum and Dad. I’d found the wine at the back of the fridge. Once upon a time my parents would sit in the back garden and share a bottle. That was so long ago I wasn’t sure it was a genuine memory. I worried the wine might be off. I had an image of Mum and Dad kneeling side by side and retching down the same toilet, but then I thought if anything was going to do that it would be my cooking.
    â€œBut before we eat,” I said, “
voulez-vous dancer avec moi
, Papa?”
    â€œI’m sorry?” said Dad.
    â€œThat has been established. Would you like to dance with me?”
    â€œI can’t dance,” he said with the conviction of a career computer geek.
    â€œThen now is the time to learn.” I stood and held out my arms. Mum giggled. For a moment I couldn’t place the sound because it was so unfamiliar. I hadn’t heard her laugh in years.
    Dad got to his feet. Even he was smiling. He took my arms and we shuffled around the floor for a minute. My head was buried in his stomach. In a world’s worst dancer competition, it would have been a close-run thing whether he would have scored first place or me. Four left feet moved without any sense of timing.
    â€œGiant steps, Dad?” I asked.
    He groaned. When I was little I used to stand on his feet and he’d lurch around while I screamed with laughter. I’m heavier now, but I’m not what you would call a fatso.
    I slipped off my shoes and stood on his insteps and we swayed drunkenly around the dining room. At least we had reduced the left feet by fifty percent. Mum laughed and clapped as the song finished and we shuddered to a halt.
    â€œ
Merci bien
,” I said.
    â€œI’m sorry?” said Dad.
    â€œ
Papa! Parle français!
”
    â€œOh, yes.” He dug the piece of paper I gave him out of his pocket and looked it over. His brow scrunched up in concentration.
    â€œ
Votre grenouille a mangé mon déjeuner
,” he said.
    â€œ
Bien sûr
,” I replied.
    â€œWhat does that mean, anyway?” Dad said.
    â€œ ‘Your frog has eaten my dinner.’ Or it might be lunch. A useful phrase, I’m sure you will agree.”
    Mum’s giggles increased to the extent she was choking. I turned toward her, but she waved me away with a hand.
    â€œEnough,” I said. “It is time for dinner.
Asseyez, s’il vous plaît
.” To assist them with comprehension, I sat at the table and indicated they should do the same.
    The jambalaya looked like the recent contents