My Very Tall Cousin Sam graduated (or, as Ernie calls it, “gradulated”) from his master’s program yesterday and, never missing an opportunity to gather and celebrate, Watsons converged in Monterey. The ceremony was long and had the strangest d.j.-ing I’ve ever heard: Perez Prado figured prominently and at another point my aunt quipped that she was so proud her son had finally finished the Jedi Acadey. Yes, Star Wars music. Ernie was a trooper (regular, not Storm) and enjoyed the same parts of the event as the rest of us: when Sam walked in the procession, when Sam’s name was read loud and he walked across the stage, when Sam walked by in the recessional, and when we all got to leave.
Sammy-Boy, as we’ll call him no matter how mature and manly he becomes, organized a great party for his guests. The d.j. was not strange at all, but awesome. Bocce ball and fire pits provided additional entertainments. Best of all he hired a friend’s mother to make tamales, mole, rice, beans, and more. I’d love to make fun of my father for having a plate that looked like this:
But I can’t, because mine was just as bad. In fact, the only one who managed to eat in the patio chairs with any grace or dignity was Ernie, who preferred the chicken tamales to all others.
Tip: if you want to eat more mole sauce but find yourself becoming a bit full, pour some over shredded lettuce. Delicious! No, I’m not kidding.
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