Chapter 6
Two Drink Minimum
My kids, Jessie 18 and Josh 20, had always appreciated the fact that my ex-husband, Walter, and I celebrated the holidays together after our divorce, and so I’ve fixed each of these special meals and welcomed Walter in.
When we were first divorced Walter seemed to appreciate the homemade meals. When I asked him to bring part of the meal he would, in the early years, bring what he considered his share. One year he brought napkins and a bottle of pop and the next a can of black olives and a can of cranberry sauce which only he would eat. You know the kind. It’s a blob of gelatinous goo that requires opening both ends of the can in order to slide it out onto a plate.
When I was a kid I opened a can of cranberry glob, slid it out, and cut it into the shape of a kidney. Santa had brought me the game of Operation that year and I took the plastic funny bone from the game and placed it discretely in the middle of the cranberry kidney. I was asked to say grace that year. At the end of the heartfelt thanks I announced that one lucky dinner guest would receive a gift from within the mucus-like cranberry substance. In preparing for my future as a surgeon I explained, in what I felt were quite scientific terms, I had implanted a prosthetic device within the cranberry kidney. The winner could come forward at the end of the meal to claim his or her prize upon return of the prosthesis to the game board without lighting up the fat guy’s nose. My mom looked closely into what I thought was a very cleverly designed kidney and gave me the stink eye. She picked up the plate, and the cranberry sauce skated for a minute and almost dove onto the floor. She invited me into the utility room where I received a lecture on wasting food and a spanking to remind me to keep my surgical aspirations away from the holiday meal table in the future.
Typically at the end of a holiday meal Walter would stand up, go into the kitchen, and start filling containers with leftovers which he would put into his vehicle to take home. He would then head upstairs where he kicked back to enjoy the football games which none of the rest of us cared to watch while the kids and I spent the next hour washing dishes.
I must say that as the years have gone by and I’ve suggested more and more strongly that he chip in for these meals, I’ve become resentful that he doesn’t help; although it’s not worth a fight in front of the kids to make my point. And so I’ve adopted a two drink minimum policy, requiring at least two glasses of any alcoholic beverage before he comes in to mask the way I truly feel about spending these holiday meals with my ex-husband. I must admit that it has worked quite well for me all these years as by the end of the second glass I’m always happy to see him.
Last year I called Walter a couple of days before Christmas.
“Hey, Walter,” I said. “What part of Christmas dinner can you bring?”
“I didn’t know I needed to bring anything,” he said.
“It would be nice if you could bring something,” I said.
“What are we having?” he asked.
“Turkey and all the trimmings,” I said.
“Didn’t we just have turkey for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, we did,” but the kids wanted turkey for Christmas too.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.”
“I’d rather have ham,” he said.
“I already bought the turkey,” I said.
“It’s not too late to buy a ham, too,” Walter said.
“Is that what you’d like to bring for the meal?” I asked, quite hopeful he’d agree.
“No, I don’t want it that badly,” he said. “The turkey will just have to do, I guess.”
“What can you bring, then?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I’ll check my cabinets and see what I’ve got.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I said, sarcasm oozing like the cranberry mucus only he would eat.
On Christmas day Walter walked in and inhaled deeply appreciating all of the wonderful scents that filled the air. There was turkey which is, of course, the most incredible smell in the world. The home-made bread would be coming out of the oven any moment. The sweet potatoes were baking with the marshmallows getting lightly browned and inflated. The fragrance of stuffing filled the air as it was scraped from the bowels of the turkey. The underlying fragrance of pumpkin and pecan pie was still palpable as they’d been baked that morning.
“Merry Christmas, dad,” Josh and Jessie said, so happy to see their dad on this special day.
“Merry Christmas!” Walter said, setting a small grocery bag on the counter and turning again to head outside. “Lucy, this is for dinner. Josh and Jessie, come help me bring in the presents!” he said to the kids.
They all headed outside and I couldn’t wait to see what delicacies he’d brought for this special occasion. I opened the bag he’d left on the counter and in it found a can of generic pork ‘n beans. I promptly downed my third glass of champagne.
“Pork ‘n beans?” Shallow Lucy asked. She had floated in ever so quietly on the bubbles of champagne. “There isn’t even real pork in this can; just little, white chunks of pork-like substance. Look closely at the can, Lucy. The word pork is actually enclosed in quotation marks. Did he think you wouldn’t notice this?”
The three of them headed upstairs where his gifts for the kids were opened with the excitement that always comes with Christmas. From downstairs in the kitchen I could hear the squeals of delight and the deep appreciation the kids expressed for the dozens of gifts they opened. When they were done the living room floor was knee-deep in wrapping paraphernalia.
That afternoon with the meal on the table and the “pork” ‘n beans nestled on the shelves of my cabinets, Jessie said grace.
“Dear, God,” she began, “thank you for this beautiful meal and for letting our whole family be here together to share it. Amen.”
“Amen,” I said, reminded once again that the kids were the reason I kept inviting this man for the holidays, and grateful that I could hold back what I really wanted to say.
When the meal began, though, I simply could not stop my imagination from going to those familiar dark places to which ex-husbands are so often taken by ex-wives.
I watched as Walter ate bite after bite of the meal I had spent the last two days preparing. After he took a particularly large mouthful of the roasted garlic mashed potatoes, I pictured the can of “pork” ‘n beans in Shallow Lucy’s hand. In my mind’s eye she took aim and hurled that 16-ounce can at Walter’s generously sized head. It landed with the precision of a professional baseball player’s pitch, right across his holiday plate for a strike that would go down in the record books. He went slightly cross eyed for a brief moment, wavered, and landed face first in his holiday meal. He convulsed slightly from side to side, just long enough to fill the left ear canal with sweet potatoes and lightly browned marshmallows and the right ear canal with a small helping of ambrosia, a pineapple tidbit balancing precariously for a moment and then plummeting into his ear for good measure.
“Nicely done, Shallow Lucy!” I shouted! “What an arm!”
Nearly a year passed and Thanksgiving was upon us again. I decided to be more specific about my desire to split both the work and the expense of the holiday meal this time and so I called Walter.
“Hi, Walter,” I said. “Will you be coming over for Thanksgiving this year?”
In my mind I prayed over and over that he’d say he had other plans. Although I know that sometimes the answer to our prayers is “no” I still held out that hope for a moment.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.
“What would you like to bring?” I asked.
“You do such a great job making the meal that I hate to bring anything I make,” he said.
“The kids like your cooking,” I said. “What can you bring?”
“I can bring pop,” he said.
“That’s a great start,” I encouraged him.
“What
do you mean, ‘a great start?’”
“I mean what else would you like to bring? I’d like to split the meal this year with each of us bringing something substantial.”
“Well, I guess I could bring a bag of salad,” he said.
“That would help,” I said.
“Do you have salad dressing or do I have to bring that too?” he asked.
“I have dressing here. What else can you bring?”
“Really, that’s about it,” he said. “You know how tight things are at the holidays.”
I could literally feel my blood pressure going up and knew I had to end the phone call before it got out of control and I lost it. For the sake of my own health I just had to let this go.
And so he came for Thanksgiving this year and indeed brought a bag of salad.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” he said to the kids when he walked in.
“Here’s the salad,” he said, as he handed me a bag of iceberg lettuce and shredded carrot pieces.
“Did you remember the pop?” I asked.
“Oops,” he said. “Guess I forgot that part.”
The fantasies began again that year but with less impact than last year because in my mind no matter how hard I threw that bag of lettuce the outcome was never as dramatic as it had been when the can of beans cracked him in the head at Christmas. I did make up my mind, though, that I would be more direct for Christmas this year.
A couple of weeks before Christmas Walter called.
“Hello?” I said.
“Are you having Christmas dinner again this year?” he asked.
“I’m glad you called because I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said.
“Yes?” he said.
“I wonder if you could take care of Christmas dinner this year?” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘take care’ of it?” he asked. “You mean bring something for dinner?”
“No,” I said, “I mean prepare the entire meal.”
“You know I’m only renting a room in my brother’s house,” he said.
“You have a kitchen there, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s the same kitchen your mother prepared all of the holiday meals in when you were growing up, right?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“The kitchen works, right?” I asked.
“I guess,” he said.
“Well, then,” I suggested, “why don’t you fix dinner this year?”
“I don’t really know how to cook that much food,” he stammered.
“I’d be happy to print some recipes out for you,” I offered.
“There’s really not room over here for all of us,” he argued.
“Well, then, you can bring the food over to my house.”
“You’re a much better cook,” he said.
“I agree, Walter, but I’m on strike. I’ve fixed every holiday meal for the last ten years since we’ve been divorced. And I’m not going to cook another one until you’ve taken your turn.”
“I’ll have to buy one of the pre-packaged holiday meals at the grocery store,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll provide the salad. And don’t worry about the dressings, I’ll get those too.”
“Yeah,” he said sarcastically, “thanks. That will be a great help.”
“Anything I can do,” I said earnestly.
Over the next three days Walter called twice to convince me that it was a monumentally bad idea to leave him in charge of the meal. Both times I stood my ground and said that I was just not going to take care of it this time.
He then called to elicit Jessie’s help in convincing me that this was a really, really bad idea.
“Mom,” Jessie said after talking with her dad on the phone for a while. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to make dad do Christmas dinner this year?”
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“Well, he said that he looked into buying the pre-packaged meals but they’re way too expensive. If he spends that much money on Christmas dinner he won’t be able to buy as many Christmas gifts this year.”
“Maybe he’d be better off making the meal himself then,” I suggested.
“He says that costs a lot too,” she said.
“Jessie,” I said, “I’m trying to make your dad understand how much time and money I’ve invested in preparing the holiday meals over the years while he chooses to help with less and less each year. I need a break this year, and it’s his turn. I’ve paid for every meal for the past ten years out of my Christmas money, and I don’t feel a bit bad asking him to do this for the first time.”
“That seems fair,” she agreed.
A couple of days later she approached me again.
“Dad called,” she said, “and asked if it’s OK if he cooks dinner over here instead of making it at his house. He says it will get cold if he cooks it at home and then brings it here.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“He also wants to know if he can use your flour,” she said.
“No, Jessie,” I said, “he needs to bring his own flour.”
“He also wanted to know if he can use your eggs, milk, and seasonings.”
“No,” I said, standing my ground. “He really needs to bring the entire meal this time.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
After she told him that he’d have to purchase all of the food, he told her that he got the fact that I was trying to teach him a lesson and I could stop now. But she told him that I really meant it and he agreed to buy all of the food.
Anticipating that he’d still be relying on the items in my kitchen I stopped replenishing my groceries over the next couple of weeks. On Christmas day there would be no milk, eggs, or butter. If he found himself in need of these items he would need to make a trip to the convenience store and pay for them. I did leave one potato, though, with a number of roots protruding from its wrinkled skin. I even considered gift wrapping it but decided that would just be going too far.
I awaited Christmas day with more anticipation than usual. The thought of lying around in my sweats while Walter slaved in the kitchen was just breathtaking. My fantasy took me away to a place where I laid on the couch and snapped my fingers as he refilled my champagne flute with Dom Perignon in between trips to the kitchen where he sweated like a pig moving from the stove to the counter tops and back to the oven to ensure everything would be done to perfection.
Jessie went grocery shopping with him the week before the big day and came home and announced that he had spent $86.00 on food for the meal. I guess the lesson was truly sinking in.
Christmas day arrived and Walter came over in the morning and unloaded his grocery bags.
“What did you decide to make for the dinner?” he asked.
“I brought a bag of salad,” I said. “I thought I told you that’s what I would bring.”
“You did tell me that,” he said, “but I was hoping you’d bring more.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I could go through my cupboards and see what I have.”
I went into my cabinets and produced the can of “pork” ‘n beans and asked if that would help. I wondered if he’d even recognize them.
“That’s very funny,” he said. “Why would I want beans for Christmas dinner?” Clearly he did not remember his contribution to last year’s meal.
“Good point,” I said. “I guess the salad will have to do.”
Josh, Jessie, and Walter spent several hours in the kitchen that day and together they made a meal to remember. When they headed for the kitchen to start the meal, I went to bed and read and slept for a couple of hours. It truly was the most relaxing Christmas day I had ever had. The food was excellent and the table was beautiful. We had all of the holiday classics and I just opened my contribution and poured it into a festive bowl.
Before he left that evening I
tried to express what a nice break he had given me.
“Thank you, Walter,” I said, “for fixing the meal this year. The food was wonderful and it was really nice to be able to just take a nap instead of spending two days in the kitchen.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I had my doubts that I could really pull it off. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“You know I’d really like to keep splitting the holiday meals from now on,” I said. “Next year I’ll let you choose either Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner and we can each prepare one.”
“I don’t think we’ll need to do that,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve decided that I’m going to move to Florida next year,” he said. “Jessie will be graduating from high school and she really won’t need me around anymore. The weather in Michigan is getting to me, and the day after her graduation I’ll be gone.”
Thus ends the holiday meal saga. No longer will I require two drinks minimum to get me through. No longer will I need to fantasize about justice being served to Walter through a precisely pitched can of “pork” ‘n beans. Sadly, though, no longer will Josh and Jessie get to share the holiday meals with their dad whom they adore. My gain is certainly their loss; a bittersweet victory to be sure.
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