"...And know they love you."

I'm in Florida, visiting my parents.

Dad has this thing about fruit stands. He loves them. When we used to take family vacations, we stopped at virtually every fruitstand we passed along the road. My sister and I would groan, "But we just stopped at one!"

Dad would say, "Let's see what this guy has." I sort of associate long car trips with the smell of peaches and nectarines.

My sister and I believe it's the legacy of this passion for fruitstands that's the basis for a contemporary ritual we call "the food interrogation." This ritual traditionally takes place in the car, when they've picked one of us up at the airport and we're driving to their house.

Shortly after the customary "How was your flight?" questions are taken care of, at a lull in conversation, Dad will begin to carefully inquire about our fruit and vegetable preferences.

This drive from the airport was no exception. This time, he began with vegetables.

“Do you like vegetables?” Dad asked.

“He’s joking, right?” I asked Mom. It is always comic when he begins. He doesn't realize that we expect this interrogation, that he has asked us these same questions dozens of times.

“No, I don’t think he is.”

”Joking about what? I only wondered if you like vegetables.” He looks slightly injured.

“Yes, Dad. I like vegetables, “ I say as patiently as I can.

”What about fruit? Do you like fruit?”

“No, Dad. Not so much. It’s a carb thing.”

”Oh.” A pause while he considers this grave omission from my diet.

“What kind of vegetables do you like, then?”

I list my favorite vegetables. Tomatoes, zucchini, mushrooms.

Onions.

Yeah, onions.

Spinach, broccoli, green and red peppers.

I'm not a big fan of string beans.

Asparagus is good.

When he was driving-- (and he only stopped recently, after a car accident--) He frequently came home laden with small plastic bags containing zucchini, bananas, and for my sister -who has an intrepid palate-- the hottest hot peppers he could find. He took real delight in bringing things to us.

"Cupcake, look-- you said you like zucchini! I brought you some!"

His enjoyment in bringing us that stuff is so sweet. Yet the ritual of the food interrogation never fails to annoy me. I list the vegetables begrudgingly. I think, "Why doesn't he remember, ever, that I don't like fruit that much?" And I wish that weren't so.

Sometimes when I am with my parents, I feel like I am two people. The adult in me looks at them with an indulgent, loving appreciation-- so aware that I am lucky to still have them, so grateful for who they are. But the lurking teenager in me still sulks, wishing that Mom would puh-lease stop asking me if I want some Soy Milk, as I gave up my Non-Dairy phase in 1997. That even though I think her hair looks great, I don't want her hairdresser at JC Penney's to do my hair.

Yesterday, driving my father somewhere, I snapped at him when he said, "Look out!" as I was about to turn into a busy street. A truck had pulled out about 300 yards away. It was no threat to us. So I said, rather snottily, "Yes, Dad, I see it!" In a tone I wish I hadn't used.

Immediately, I put my hand on his soon to be 83-year-old arm and said, "I'm sorry I snapped at you." But the words couldn't be unsaid.

I no longer have the luxury of acting out my inner teenager. Every moment with them is precious. Every word they say, every experience shared, I try to etch indelibly in my memory.

They're wonderful people. They have been bewilderingly supportive parents, loving kind parents whose bounty of wisdom and unconditional love has baffled me. It's almost God-like. Having no children of my own, I don't know if I could ever find that wealth of forgiveness, of unquestioning respect and affection.

I'm trying, now, to find it. They deserve it.

So, yes, Pops-- I like vegetables. I like them fine. (And I love you and Mom.) Anything else you want to know? Just ask.