FAMILY TIES . . .

With Cheech stowed away in a teeny "two-bedroom" apartment in NYC somewhere (I put "two-bedroom" in quotes because anyone who has lived in NYC post-college on a limited budget knows exactly what I mean), it's just me, Omma, Appa and Gran at home, in the house we've lived in for the past seventeen years. But my parents and I work full-time jobs and have active social lives, and Gran keeps busy with her Korean soap operas and knit scarf orders; as a result, my family and I live very independent lives.

Sometimes, I can go three or four days without seeing Appa. He plays saxophone in a Christian concert band that rehearses in Queens once a week; those nights, I'm usually asleep before he gets home. I'm out gallivanting with my friends at least two evenings a week ... okay, we don't really gallivant as much as we sit in front of a television with massive amounts of food and desserts and vegetate. Omma does her rounds of golfing with her lady friends, or runs errands on behalf of the office or home. Gran knits like crazy, trying to keep up with the demand created once the public got wind of her cashmere scarf-making abilities (you provide the cashmere, suckas!). My parents have all sorts of alumni associations that they keep their thumbs in, and most weekends are occupied with making those social rounds, while my Saturdays are normally spent being bullied into doing something I typically would not do. We all go to church in the same building, but at two totally different times; our cars don't even pass each other in the church parking lot as one service lets out and the other begins. You would think I'm merely a rent-paying roommate to my parents and Gran.

This morning, inspiration struck Omma with a vengeance, and she prepared a lavish diner-style breakfast for all four of us. It was Appa's off-Saturday, so he was home, practicing the saxophone in the basement. I drifted awake to the smell of eggs and potatoes, and the smooth sound of Appa playing a hymn on his tenor sax. The four of us sat down at the kitchen table -- the first time all four of us have been gathered in one room for one meal in ... God knows how long! -- prayed, and ate our breakfast, sipping our teas, engaging in random conversation. We admired our new kitchen (which, miraculously, after one week, is still relatively new and clean-looking), stared out the window at the sparkling snow, talked about the wretched condominium market and how amazing it is that someone actually bought the ugly 2-bedroom we saw two weeks ago, then sat back and burped in appreciation and relaxation.

I'm back in my room now, having taken a shower (alright, alright, it's past noon, but it's Saturday, for crying out loud! And I know for a fact that Mrs.G is still in her pajamas!). Appa has just finished another round of lyrical practicing in the basement; Gran is plopped on the sofa, a Korean soap opera on the television as background noise, knitting away on another person's request; Omma is putting on her jacket and gloves. I'm getting ready to go out and start my busy weekend with friends; Omma and Appa, those crazy folks, are going to the range to hit some golf balls (ahhh, never say addiction is not a disease).

So we go our separate ways again. But it's okay ... we had breakfast together.