I wrote this down back in 1992 or 1993. My daughter and I were living with my parents at the time in a lovely, large house in Portland. Some friends of the family had just left after a weekend visit.
We are sitting on the front porch, Mum, Dad and me, discussing which friends and relatives of Janet and Al they had met.
Dad: "I'm thinking of that tall Russian or Slavic fellow who cooked."
Mum: "No, no. That was Michael. He wasn't really Russian, he just pretended to be."
Dad: "Well, he sure could cook. I think he was queer."
Mum: "He wasn't queer - just swishy and posing. He and I had a good hoohaw about French reductionism."
At this point I start laughing. "What's so funny about that?" asks Mum, tolerantly amused.
"The idea of having a good hoohaw about French reductionism with bogus Russian queers is giving me a good hoohaw. French reductionism!" says I.
We return to the discussion of other people's relatives.