Mom worried the “meat” would upset Dad’s stomach, and I wondered, since when does meat upset Dad’s stomach? Not with last Sunday’s post roast or the hamburgers from Jeanette’s visit or….  The “meat” was four small chicken chunks on a kebob—Greek souvlaki—with a mountain of fries on the side, and a spot of salad and a dry pita.  I had arrived home late from the NOMÁS free immigration clinic, which, after two years of nightly cooking, I now use as an excuse to order out on Thursdays.  Look at these French fries, Rog!  Dad had been hoping for French fries, had been craving French Fries, all day, but Mom had not felt up to driving alone to McDonald’s or Arby’s or Arctic Circle.  These are such wonderful French fries, Rog!  Mom took a swallow from her glass of Juicy Juicy mango juice, and the swallow sounded wrong, and she sputtered and choked and her face turned red then purple and she coughed and coughed with her lap towel to her face.  As with so many of their hardships, I could only watch and worry.  But she recovered, and chuckled with an embarrassed squeaky rasp that things sometimes go down the wrong pipe.  As I well know, from my own frequent experience.  One of my siblings drinks only from a straw to avoid certain aspiration otherwise.  Is it genetic?  Dad choked through his own mis-swallow: I just love [cough] these French fries [cough], Rog! [cough cough].  I’m glad, Dad, because apparently you are having a mess of French fries for dinner, since you are worried about the chicken and pick at your salad and nibble at your pita.  I spent the whoooole day wanting French fries, Rog, and here you just walked through the door with the best French fries ever!  Thank you, Crown Burger, I think.  Cough cough cough.