food

And so it was that my imaginary daughter Amy, 6, spent Christmas with her mother, Carolyn, at Carolyn’s mother’s house outside of Boston. Big Carolyn was excited because it was the first time in years that her three daughters have all been out of prison on Christmas.

I let Amy tell me the story.

“Grandma made a ham, that kind that comes out of a big can. Then Fahd said something about a big can to mom and she got mad, but I don’t get it. ”

“Aunt Crystal got mashed potatoes from the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Friday after work.” I asked, “Where does she work now?” Amy replied, in that incredulous tone that kids use when their parents are lacking in deductive reasoning, “At Kentucky Fried Chicken.” Mercifully, she did not say “Duh.”

She went on.

“Mom made chili, but Aunt Coleen said it was too hot, so mom told her she could eat shit, then Aunt Coleen said it would look better than the chili, and then they were pullin’ each others’ hair in the kitchen and Fahd had to separate them.

Aunt Coleen stepped on Fahd’s foot and he had to go soak it in grandma’s bathtub. Mom made him some special medicine called Jack Daniels.”

“He drank it all and feel asleep in Grandma’s recliner.”

I interjected, “I see Fahd wore his good shorts.”

“Yah,” affirmed Amy, in the Acton accent of her foremothers.

“What did they have for dessert?” I asked with some dread. “Gram made a delicious Christmas Jell-O mold.”

“How is grandma?” I wondered with a polite modicum of enthusiasm.

“Mom said Grandma was feeling no pain.”

“That was before the Christmas tree fell and the angel hit her in the head. She’s okay. I had a great time.”

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