A Christmas Carol

This year we ran a little late for the Christmas Eve church service, because I committed to bring a casserole to the family dinner at my brother’s house immediately following the service. I had been officially nominated to make the famous yam and marshmallow dish that no one ever seemed to eat, yet oddly still requested.

Actually, that’s not one hundred percent accurate. The children always manage to eat the marshmallows out of the recipe, without touching a single discarded yam, and with a precision that comes only from years of diligent practice.

As we snuck into the back of the church and sat down, the pastor was reading a newly enacted disclaimer provided by the insurance company. It stated that children under the age of 8 would not be allowed to participate in this year’s candlelight vigil due to the company’s modified coverage stipulations. He encouraged us to share our candles with the younger members of our congregation.

I noticed my husband’s posture stiffen at the obvious reference to last year’s unfortunate incident when my youngest son’s Christmas Eve bulletin had accidentally caught on fire. I am very happy to report that we did not have a repeat of the previous year’s calamity but a few people did look slightly concerned when my son picked up a candle to participate in the experience. I quickly informed them that he had recently had a birthday and was completely within policy. Still, they looked at him as if he were holding a blowtorch. I admit I was a little relieved myself when the service wrapped up and he blew out his candle. Following the harrowing, nerve racking observance, we quickly loaded everyone into the car and headed over to my brother’s house with a huge sigh of relief.

Once we arrived, I dropped the yam casserole off in the kitchen and joined my family in the living room.

My young nephew Darin and my daughter were mid conversation. He was saying, “...and then they stuff it with stuffing – Grandma!” he hollered into the kitchen, “What do you stuff the Turkey with?”

“Bread crumbs, celery, onions, anything you want,” she answered.

“And then,” he said motioning to my brother in law’s taxidermied buck, “they put it on the wall!”

My daughter’s eyes grew wide in astonishment.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I stopped him.

“Well, what do you think is in there?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I actually don’t know,” I admitted.

“Grandma!” he called back into the kitchen. “What’s in stuffing again?”

“Bread crumbs, celery, onions.”

He pointed toward the kitchen, knowing full well the family oracle had validated his point.

“No wonder it stinks,” my daughter said shaking her head in disgust.

My husband was obliviously reading The Loop newspaper in peace when I pulled it down from in front of his face and pointed at the dead animal on the wall. “You need to tell the kids what’s inside of that taxidermied thing.”

He quickly tried to assess the situation but to no avail. “Some sort of stuffing,” he answered perplexed and then slowly lifted the paper back up to block himself from my view.

“It’s true Auntie,” said my young nephew. “It’s full of stuffing.”

I looked into the kitchen at my mother who was oblivious to her role in the mishap. I decided to run with it and said to the kids, “You should have been here the year Grandma stuffed that buck on the wall. You remember that Christmas, don’t you Honey?” I asked my husband confident of his answer.

“Yes, dear,” he responded, as I expected, without ever looking up from his paper.

“Dinner is ready!” My mother suddenly announced, waving us into the kitchen to eat, which we did without reserve.

By the end of the evening we had demolished the entire meal with the sole exception of the yam casserole, which looked virtually untouched except for dozens of mysteriously missing marshmallows.

My husband, reading my mind, leaned over, smiled and whispered, “Next year you should just omit the yams and that casserole will be a huge success.”

I hope you had as merry a Christmas as we did!