A couple weeks ago the mother-in-law had surgery on both hands. Since then, the wife and I have been taking care of her in Cairo.

My wife comes from a poor background, just like me. Except for obvious cultural differences I have found poor folks are pretty much the same all over the Earth. I’m an Appalachian hillbilly, and she’s from deep in the Cairo Egypt ghetto, but we share a very common struggle that bonds us.

For years she’s regaled me with stories of how tough her people are. The kind of folks who keep razor blades under their tongues and swords in their britches. People who resolve confrontations decisively… and permanently.

So imagine my concern when the brothers-in-law called and said I needed to come help deal with some street punks causing trouble.

Now, where I’m from, when we fight we brawl, and I’ve been in more than my fair share. But I’m closer to fifty than forty these days, and I haven’t been in a fight in fifteen years or more.

Driving over, I was trying to psych myself up. Convincing myself I still had the juice.

When I arrived, the men were positioned at opposite ends of a parking lot. I joined my side and started sizing up the opposition.

I’m a big guy, head and shoulders above most Egyptians, so I was hoping to get by on my go-to move: looking large and irritated.

The men across from us were all in their twenties. Average height, average build… but there were a lot of them compared to the four on our side.

Then the youngest brother-in-law walked away.

He’s just a teenager, and I figured he was scared. Probably for the best, I thought. If he got hurt, the mother-in-law would never forgive me. But it left us even more sorely outnumbered.

A few moments later the street punks started walking toward us, and I figured this was it. Time to get rowdy.

That’s when the youngest brother-in-law came back.

Carrying a tray of tea.

We all sat down and had the most uncomfortable tea party imaginable. Sipping from tiny cups, glaring at each other with murderous intensity.

And then… they talked.

They talked out their problems. Like adults. Over tea.

Not long after everyone stood up and left. So much for the wife's gutter punk stories.

I'd have far fewer scars from life if I had known that tea was even an option during a confrontation. Anger is temporary, tea is forever.