“Easter was in March,” I said.
“Would they remember that? Most people think of Easter as being in April.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But if Lightfoot did something to upset them back then, why not call it the Easter thing? And why wait nine months?”
Michael shrugged and shook his head.
“Well, I’ll tell the chief,” I said. “Assuming he ever calls me back. He’s in the New Life congregation—maybe he’ll have some idea just what happened in April.”
“Or maybe he’ll convince the boys to spill all,” Michael said. “Anyway—you know, we could do this tomorrow.”
He’d caught me yawning prodigiously.
“Tomorrow is cutting it awfully close, isn’t it?” I asked. “Especially since we’ve got your Christmas Carol performance tomorrow night. And I want to get everything possible wrapped beforehand, so we can save Christmas Eve for assembling things.”
“Do we have any more gift tags?” Michael said, holding up a present. “I need to tag this one before I forget who it’s for.”
“Hand it to me—I’ll make some more tags.” I grabbed the scissors and a scrap of foil paper and began carefully cutting little rectangles that I could fold into tags.
“And don’t forget,” I went on. “We’ll be helping both mothers with their dinners.”
“Right,” he said. “So we persevere. It would help if our respective mothers-in-law could work together and throw one big Christmas dinner instead of two.”
“It was a major feat of diplomacy to get them to schedule their meals at different times,” I said.
“Understood,” he said. “And believe me, your diplomatic skills are much appreciated. So is it lunch with your parents and then supper back here with whatever Mom comes up with? Or vice versa?”
“Please!” I said. “They would both be mortally insulted at hearing their banquets described as lunch or supper. Early dinner and late dinner, noon sharp and six p.m.”
“And Pepto-Bismol at midnight,” he said. “Please tell me they’re going for something easy to digest.”
“Mother’s doing turkey,” I said.
“Fabulous! I like a traditional holiday meal.”
“Which she is cooking in some odd way she read about on one of those food blogs,” I said. “Stuffed with crab, oysters, and lobster.”
“Sounds delicious!” And then his face fell. “For those who can eat it. Is she having a seafood-free option, or has she forgotten your allergies again?”
“Mother doesn’t approve of my being allergic to anything as elegant and expensive as crab, oysters, and lobster,” I said.
“Well, there should be plenty of side dishes.”
“And with any luck she won’t gussy up all of them with seafood.”
“Or if she does, you’ll have all the more room for Mom’s feast,” he said.
“Yes.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but Michael knew me too well.
“So, what’s Mom serving?” he asked.
“She’s going pan-Asian,” I said. “Cantonese-style lobster is the main course.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Accompanied by Peking duck, squid pancakes, spicy pig’s blood soup, thousand-year-old eggs, and charcoal-grilled eel.”
“She’s clearly trying to impress everyone,” Michael said. “She always goes to Asian dishes with … unusual ingredients when she wants to impress.”
“She said she knew people would be tired of ordinary holiday fare by the time they came to her dinner,” I said.
We wrapped in silence for a few minutes.
“You know,” I said finally. “I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The whole idea of getting tired of the usual holiday fare,” I said. “I like holiday fare. Turkey. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. Pumpkin pie. I like them.”
“I assume everyone does. Or almost everyone.”
“And I never understand all the fuss about how to use up leftover turkey. What’s wrong with just eating it the way it comes, at least while the gravy lasts? I’m always a little sad when the turkey runs out.”
“I agree,” he said.
“But unfortunately neither of our mothers does,” I said. “And please don’t repeat this to them—”
“Of course not.”
“Because I feel horribly ungrateful complaining about this. They’re going to a world of trouble, and fixing us fabulous, gourmet fare.”
“That you can’t eat.”
“Some of which I can’t eat, but that’s beside the point. Even if they fixed something I could eat—something I liked, like steak—I’d still kind of miss the traditional fare. Turkey, cooked in a normal way, not stuffed with crustaceans. And with good old artery-clogging southern gravy. Mashed potatoes. Cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie. Tomato aspic. Don’t make a face—Mother’s tomato aspic is more like Bloody Mary–flavored Jell-O.”