The Worst Supper
Sometimes
a bad meal is the best part of Christmas dinner.
By Terence Loose
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y worst holiday meal was
not the still-frozen Butterball with piping hot cranberries of ‘94. It was not ‘99’s
wild hen with a side of salmonella, or even 2002’s buckshot-stuffed duck. No,
my worst holiday meal was the perfectly prepared and lovingly presented tofu
turkey my Aunt Liz served just last year.
It was Aunt Liz’s first
try at hosting the family dinner and she wanted to make an impression, which
she did with what will forever be known as the year The Blob stole Christmas
dinner. It was a beer bottle brown Jello-y sort of
thing, molded into the shape of an anorexic headless turkey and when it was
served, appetites died faster than a nerd in a horror flick. With it, Aunt Liz
served an assortment of mashed cranberries, sliced oranges and some figs – at
least we were told they were figs – and instead of a carving knife, she used a
huge serving spoon to scoop each portion out.
“Charlie, how about a
nice breast?” she said with a proud giggle, and when she dug the spoon into the
“turkey” it made a sound like an old boot stuck in mud. She plopped it on Uncle
Charlie’s plate and he stared at it like a lumberjack looking at escargot…in
mud. Fortunately for Aunt Liz, Charlie was kinder than his football coach looks
let on, and he managed a half-hearted “Mmmm, looks
very…foul-ish.”
Unfortunately for Aunt
Liz, Charlie’s teenaged daughter Kelly was not as delicate as her 18-inch waist
implied. “I didn’t starve all year to eat mashed soy beans for Christmas
dinner. I want meat,” she said when offered a dripping drumstick.
Aunt Liz took it in
stride and did what she usually did when challenged: she took a slug of wine.
Now, to be honest, I’ve
found that a bad meal almost never has anything to do with the food itself.
It’s the ambiance or, more often, the company and conversation that makes or
breaks a good dinner. And when a meal is ruined in my family, it’s usually at the
praying hands of religion. Frankly, I’ve always felt religion has no business
at Christmas dinner. Especially when stress levels are already high thanks to
hungry eyes staring down mashed bean gelatin.
So it was with a sense of
dread that I listened to Aunt Liz explain the reason for the unique meal. She
had found God recently, she said, and he had told her to serve tofu.
“Was he delirious with
hunger?” Kelly asked.
Aunt Liz took a long hit
of Chianti and launched into a sermon worthy of Jerry Falwell.
She explained that in her new church – what I guessed was a very small,
famished but intoxicated group – they believed in extreme Christian
fundamentalism in the form of strict adherence to the first book of the Bible,
Genesis. In short, they were going back to the Garden of Eden. “And in that
garden, animals are our friends,” Aunt Liz said. “Except for
the snake.”
Kelly thrust her plate of
“drumstick” back. “I vote we have snake.”
Aunt Liz ignored her. “We
eat fruits and vegetables, except of course apples, which are the snake’s
friends.”
“That’s the stupidest
thing I’ve ever heard!” It was my other aunt, Ester, who had been born again
about two years before, right after her third drunk driving arrest landed her
in the slammer for six months, which she said was a message from the Lord.
Apparently, Jesus likes a captive audience. She had been sober (meaning high on
coffee and cigarettes) ever since. Most people liked her better when she was a
drunk.
“I don’t recall any of
the scriptures mentioning tofu,” she said.
“I allowed myself one
small interpretation, for the good of the meal,” said Aunt Liz.
“You couldn’t interpret
us up a sacrificial lamb or pig?” Kelly asked.
“And what about the gallon
of wine you’ve pounded? I don’t remember Adam and Eve getting sloshed,” said
Ester, sucking on her Menthol.
“Grapes,” said Aunt Liz,
holding up a fresh glass. “I think I’m on pretty solid ground there.”
“I’ll drink to that,”
said Charlie, hoping to change the mood.
“Who the hell are these
garden people?” demanded Kelly.
“Please, I don’t allow
cursing in my home,” said Aunt Liz.
“But starvation is okay,”
said Ester.
Aunt Liz was getting
crucified, and if I wasn’t so weak from hunger – not to mention truly petrified
of a ravenous Kelly and Aunt Ester – I probably would have come to her aid. I
liked Aunt Liz; she was one of those ditsy cheek-squeezers for whom you can’t
help but feel a little sorrowful affection. But try as I might, I really
couldn’t fathom a good defense for Christmas tofu. Besides, even with an
infallible argument, I didn’t see much chance for a religious, drunk vegetarian
against a table of starving holiday guests.
“Jesus drank wine at the
Last Supper,” said Aunt Liz hopefully.
“I wouldn’t mention the
Last Supper,” said Kelly. “It might give people ideas.”
“Jesus could handle
temptation. We cannot,” said Ester. And the look in her eye was a shade too
threatening, even for Christmas. Plus, she had a fork.
“We haven’t said grace
yet,” I blurted out, not believing what I had said – I was not religious and in
fact usually didn’t even bow my head during grace as a silent, but polite,
protest. Now I was urging everyone to hold hands and get cuddly.
“I know what I’m praying
for,” said Kelly. “And if there’s a God, he’ll open a McDonald’s so I can get
it.”
Ester stubbed out her
cigarette in her bread plate and joined in the handholding, but before she
could take the lead, to my further surprise, I spoke up. It was a politician’s
prayer, which avoided any specifics and included a series of non sequiturs and
quotes by Gandhi, Bob Dylan and that fat guy on “Lost.” Secretly, perhaps I was
offering myself up as a martyr, I don’t know. All I know is that the
uncomfortable silence that followed actually felt like an answer to my prayer.
We all stared at our
plates, like an extermination team wondering who would go in first. Finally, a
soft, forgotten voice from the end of the table said, “Hey, that’s kinda good.” It was little Johnny, Kelly’s 12-year-old brother.
He pointed at the oatmeal-like brown swirl of a “wing” on his plate. “This tofu
stuff tastes just like chicken.”