Padre Mickey tells the thrilling tale of one memorable Christmas, when a flaming dessert burned itself into the memories of everyone present (also the carpet, furniture, the kitchen floor) before being kicked back into the kitchen). He promises 2 more visitations of this memory, as recalled by other, saner heads. It’s a Rashomon Christmas! You owe it to yourself to read the whole thing: I nearly coughed up a lung laughing at it.
We had a wonderful meal; lots of good food, and the children opened presents, and oh, what a wonderful Christmas it was! Gramma Connie had prepared a lovely Plum Pudding (Gramma Connie can bake like nobody’s bizness!). And, as is normal with any foody and creative cook, she wanted the presentation To Be Perfect (we were all unaware of Martha Stewart, and quite happy about it, I might add!). Grampa Jim splashed some clear rum on the pudding. Gramma Connie splashed some clear rum on the pudding. Aunt Sally splashed some clear rum on the plum pudding. I don’t think any of them had discussed this rum-splashing with the others. Then, Gramma Connie artistically placed the holly on the pudding, Grampa Jim lit the rum, and, with it all flaming, our hostess, Aunt Sally, slowly walked into the living room carrying the pudding-laden platter into the living room while we all sang, Now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some . . .OH MY GOD!!!!
I’m trying to think of a comparable Christmas Disaster from our own family’s collective memory; there’s photographic evidence somewhere of one from the last Christmas I spent “at home” with mom, before I got married. Mom was making a batch of “disappearing cookies,” which had to be started in a double boiler to melt butter and brown sugar together. She somehow bobbled the transfer of the stuff (I think she was bending down to retrieve something from the dishwasher, and knocked the bowl on herself from the counter) and was covered with warm, sticky, buttery goo. Fortunately, it wasn’t hot enough to burn, but it was in her hair, down her front, and all over the kitchen. She was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. Scratch one batch of cookies.
