Family functions and dysfunctions
Ihave a problem. Well, a few problems. One is that I don’t wear my hearing aids as often as I should. Another is that my sister-in-law, Andrea, and I are destined to clash, even though we try really hard to get along with each other.
The last time those two factors combined to become a bigger problem was at a family Christmas dinner in a suburb north of Chicago. My husband Huey, teenage daughter Annie and I were spending the holiday week with the in-laws and having an inedible feast on Christmas night.
The conversation between the salad on which I choked, the bloody rare roast, and the coffee-spiked ice cream was steadily going downhill. It was late, and Annie nodded as she began falling asleep at the candlelit dining-room table.
My mother-in-law, who’s in her late 80s, steered the conversation to skunks. It seems her upscale suburb had a problem too: a vacant house frequented by skunks. She feared the skunks would visit her third-floor condo.
I started tuning her out when Andrea tried to involve me in the conversation.
“Do you have many skunks in Arkansas, Debbye?” she asked.
But my aging ears heard: “Do you have much snow in Arkansas, Debbye?”
After all, I think we’d all agree that the weather is a more appropriate topic for dinner conversation than skunks.
“Some, but not much,” I replied. “We used to get more, but lately we’ve not had much. Annie only missed one day of school because of it last year. I mean, climate change has really changed things. Northeast Arkansas gets a lot more than we do in Conway.”
My in-laws listened intently, no doubt perplexed as I babbled on. My husband kept eating.
I don’t remember everything I said, but I think I finally must have used the word “snow” when Annie decided she had suffered enough and said, “Not snow. Skunks!”
At first, I had no clue what she was talking about. Then it hit me.
I mumbled something about how we didn’t have many skunks either.
That’s when Andrea decided it was time to serve dessert.
Speaking of the in-laws reminded me of another embarrassing moment. This one had nothing to do with the sense of hearing and more to do with taste and touch.
I was in my late 40s, but my marriage was in its youth—maybe a year old, maybe three. No matter, the task of preparing Thanksgiving dinner for the in-laws was the biggest challenge I had faced since I’d declared that all of my bridesmaids would have to wear bows in their hair.
The menu would be traditional—for Southerners, that is. We would of course have dressing, not stuffing. A recipe on the back of a flour bag guided me though the dressing. I served lingonberry sauce to impress my mother-in-law but cranberry sauce for others like me.
I cooked fresh green beans and a chunk of salt pork on low heat for hours, until my sister-in-law could honestly describe the beans as “mushy.” I prepared Ping’s Deviled Eggs, my one dish that seems to impress everyone. In a nod of gratitude to my mother-in-law, I invited her to make the rutabaga, a family favorite despite a lack of seasoning. And we had pumpkin pie—the in-laws’ favorite—and egg custard pie, my favorite.
Things were going quite well until my father-in-law decided to be adventuresome and try a slice of egg custard.
“What in the world is this?” he shouted as he held out a thin sheet of paper over his plate. I had failed to remove the film-like paper separating the frozen pie crusts.
I’ve since learned that inlaws can be strange and unpredictable. My husband and I separated just before Christmas but got together with our daughter, my mom and my sister for dinner and laughter.
I had been sick and had bought few gifts, handing out verbal IOUs instead. I had not even mailed the traditional book gift I usually sent to my mother-in-law every Christmas.
But she had not forgotten me, sending a generous monetary gift and a brief phone conversation. It didn’t matter, though, if she sent $50 or $500. What mattered was her kindness.