Amuse bouche... Cook off
The family WhatsApp group was pinging non-stop.
Jean had felt fine about cooking her first family Christmas dinner until today, when they all started sharing.
She’d volunteered to cook this year, after Mum texted the group to say that she and Dad were throwing in the towel. She was sorry, she knew it was short notice, but they just weren’t able for it. Mum followed the message with seven lines of emojis — dancing ladies, various cocktails, fireworks, roast chicken legs — as if to soften the blow.
There was a long pause before anyone answered, though Jean had checked after half-an-hour of silence and everyone in the group was marked as having read the message.
Dad posted a line of three chickens.
Three adult kids. All chickens.
After an hour, Jean stepped up and volunteered to cook.
There was no emoji for her two siblings’ sighs of relief, but they were quick with their gratitude. And then, this morning, the litany of her parents’ culinary crimes against Christmas had begun.
“Remember the year there were feathers in the turkey?”
“Remember the year it was raw?”
“Remember the year it was overcooked and you made Jean’s boyfriend carve it, and it fell apart and you blamed him?”
“Remember the year you decided to carry in all the veg dishes on a tray and it broke and there was veg all over the floor of the good room?”
“Yeah, remember the smell of the lost sprouts rotting under the sofa in January?”
“Remember when you grilled the roast potatoes in the new oven?”
“Remember that girlfriend who came one year and cried because she missed her mother’s Bisto?”
The messages sent Jean into a panic. If Mum and Dad had never managed a single decent, drama-free Christmas dinner, what hope had she? Funny, though, Jean’s parents took no offence at the theme.
They had plenty of their own to shoot back with, though their focus was more on the ingratitude of their kids.
“Remember the time you were so hung-over you got sick on the floor?”
“Remember the time you complained that your mate’s mother made four different kinds of potato, not just one?”
“Remember the year Jean went vegetarian and the smell of nut roast?”
“Good times,” Dad posted. “The best,” replied Mum. “Your turn to cock it up now, Jean.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jean replied.