At the movies with my GF. And, for the first time, her family.

The lights come down. The film is underway. There’s a commotion at the other end of our row. GF’s sister has retrieved something from her bag. There are whispers. Something crinkly is passed down the row, one person at a time, to the left. Eventually, GF hands me a bundle the size of a football. It’s aluminum foil on the outside. Wax paper inside, loosely wrapping up … something. “What is this?” I ask, panicking.

“Pumpkin roll?” she says. Indignant eye-roll tone. As if she meant to say “Uh, helLO, it’s a PUMPkin roll, OBVIOUSLY.” She’s suddenly realized that I’m some kind of bumpkin what ain’t never been to no big-suburb movie theater like this before. Where entire family-size bake-sale pastries are always surreptitiously circulating in the dark.

We’ve been married 20 years now. When she’s mixed-up by some momentary contextual confusion, I am still likely to tease her by ‘explaining:’ “PUMPkin roll?”

I don’t remember if I ate any of it.