Tomorrow morning I'm going to board Southwest Airlines, shove some old lady out the way, and shoulder my way to a seat. Then, my father will pick me up at LAX; we'll talk about the flight, it'll feel good to be home, and we'll catch up on the gossip. Generally, this goodwill will last 24 hours. Then, the second day, my holiday spirit will shrivel and all I will want to do is sit in a dark theater, smoke and drink bourbon.
Why? Family dinners. It's like a movie running backward. All the drama, hurt feelings and pathos happens during the cooking. Old resentments surface. You wonder if your mom really loved your sister more because how else did she manage to remember how to cook everything so perfectly? You feel your life will be justified as soon as you can manage to whip potatoes and make a pie crust all in the same afternoon. Afterward, face rosy and smelling of gravy, you just slump in your chair and eat until you get drowsy. Then you burp. Maybe you manage to eat a piece of pie. This is the boring part of the movie that makes you realize you've flown 2000 just to eat a really big dinner.
I'm used to my dinners being relaxed, wine-based, affairs. Instead of food that makes you sink into insensibility, you really need good wine, champagne and chocolate. And cheese. Perhaps fruit. Maybe a pumpkin or butternut soup. In the background, some Cousteau or Ella Fitzgerald - and the kids should eat in a totally different room. Oh - a low chaise where I can lay back, slide off my shoes and smoke a cigarette while looking up at the sky through the trees.
Why can't my holiday be like this?
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