Connecticut Commentary: Red Notes from a Blue State

Every family should have at least one hypochondriac in the fold.  Ours was a distant uncle who washed his hands multiple times before and after meals, and sometimes between meals. He was fastidious about his silverware, examining it minutely for water stains and polishing it at table with his napkin, much to the annoyance of my mother, even though the silverware was as spotless as a saint. One Christmas, the dining room table crowded with family and friends, my mother, attempting to extract a roast from the oven, brushed her hand on the pan, yelped, and dropped the roast to the floor. It spun around like a top and came to a rest touching the radiator, which was not spotless. She shot me daggers and said in a pained whisper full of menace, “DON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS!”