Don’t bring a soufflé

I never want to be the one who arrives late or sick to a holiday event or cooks something people shun, “Who brought the corn soufflé. Yuck!” When it comes to holiday gatherings, not causing a ruckus is half the battle. Everything else is gravy, and people love gravy. Somehow, through the trials and tribulations, through the traffic, through the last-minute screw-ups that occur from one side of the country to the other, through the recipe defeats, through the last-minute gifts, you have arrived and so far you haven’t totally embarrassed yourself. Give it time. My theory is once you’ve managed the great feat of just getting to your upcoming party or feast, you’re a success. Best to then seep into the woodwork rather than stick out and invite a problem. Or reveal you have one, like a sore back or scratchy throat or swollen ankle, which may elicit warm responses:

“You’re such a klutz” or worse, “You again?”

Being human is such a drag over the holidays. Unless you happen to be human, in which case it’s the only way you can enjoy the holidays, though it’s still likely something unexpected will happen.

On this particular Thanksgiving weekend, I was nursing a bad knee and realized I’d need to skip the annual bowling game and the annual hike though I’d be able to join the annual winery trip which made me feel better about the other two things.

Not wanting to make a scene, I hid the limp. While others may enjoy sympathy, I shun it. I prefer to be raked over the coals, like when my father, if I sniffled, made me lay half-naked in the sun to soak up vitamin D. I have the chest wrinkles to prove it.

But within minutes, on this first holiday of the season, I learned one guest had burned her leg, a nephew had wrenched his hand, a brother-in-law had pulled a hamstring, a sister-in law had bronchitis which kept her in bed all night, with everyone afraid to go near her.

I gloated a little, as we do on any particular holiday in any particular year, when we’re not the one with the biggest problem.

Another relative, meantime, admitted she had an allergy to bowling balls. Their roundness made her want to eat more stuffing.

Of the 18 of us slated to hurl a dangerous weapon, getting out whatever aggression whatever

legal way we could, only eight of us grabbed a ball.

That made me feel good, in that guilty way.

As we enter the next phase of the holiday season, this is what I worry about. Will we all make it safe and sound, and will our misfortunes be small enough — human beings being what they are, and life being what it is?

And even though I’m aware this creepy part of me gloats when it’s not me this time — been there, done that — I rejoice far more when a plan comes together. And all are here, and all are well enough to enjoy it, no matter what they forget to bring, or do bring that everyone hates.

One thing is sure. Whatever is imperfect will change next year when it’s someone else’s turn to be shunned in the nicest possible way.

The important thing is

to get to where you’re going. If you can. So people can blame you instead of themselves for whatever goes wrong.

Oh, by the way, I was the one who made that corn soufflé. Years ago. Yuck. No one ever lets me

forget it.

Donna Debs is a longtime freelance writer, a former radio news reporter, and a certified Iyengar yoga teacher. She lives in Tredyffrin. Email her at debbs@comcast.net.