Shrimp for Christmas

It’s all right, dear. You can skip the ham this Christmas. The goose, and turkey, and whatever else, too.

Unless you want to hand out a feast to the forest creatures? Lady Bountiful meets Father Christmas? Hey, you do you, my dear, but there’s already a lot of holiday spirits running amok; if you wish to aim for one of our seats with everything else on your plate, then by all means, carry on. But I would submit that you can strike Chief Cook and Bottle Washer off the list.

The possums, raccoons, and foxes will survive. Eagles, too, the greedy guts. I’m sure one or two will swoop by as you eat your meal. Now that the river’s frozen over, it might as well be a four lane highway. Add a lane for the deer, as well, they should use that instead of trying to waltz with the vehicles on the road.

Look, you put the “compost pile” quite a ways up the river on purpose, in the woody area. Trust me, some days it’s as if the critters got together and put up a neon sign saying GOOD EATS HERE, and set up tables and chairs for their al fresco café.

You saw Thanksgiving, remember? You know your dad hates turkey, and loathes making it. He can’t decide if he hates duck, turkey, or goose the most, because to him all of them are Not Food. He’s only made turkey all these years because it’s Traditional. Your grandmother did it because That’s What You Do, but when it came time to hand over the tradition, everyone else in the family bailed.

You know your dad felt like he had to cook a turkey, when you and your hubs moved back to your home town, and your stepdaughter and her husband moved in around the same time down the street. He felt obligated. And more so when your granddaughter was born. Honestly, I don’t care, I think you know I want the authentic fellowship of people I love around the table. It is much more important than eating traditional foods, but it’s hard when the Voice of Tradition is yelling in your ears.

And you’re Penna Dutch, so that Traditional Voice is pretty bleeping loud. But you’ve resisted before – even I am not stupid enough to ask you about Fraktur Calligraphic Hand when you practice calligraphy. Go on, goad someone else into doing it, I haven’t seen a good, graphic verbal thrashing in a long while. Yes, I know, we both recall that the only calligraphy hand for you is Humanist Bookhand, thank you very much, and none other. You adore your serifs, but not when they “take over the whole freaking shape of the letters.” Your ancestors have a lot of ‘splaining to do, when you meet up with them.

So now, you do mac and cheese, and hand-breaded chicken cutlets for Thanksgiving.

The only meat you have for Christmas?

It is shrimp, or Christmas is canceled.

Why?

Because December 25 also happens to be your dad’s birthday, and He Will Have The Food He Wants On His Birthday.

Argument? Nope, not here, nuh-uh. I’ll gladly help in polishing off two pounds of shrimp with your dad, over goose or ham any day!

Am I invited? I’m coming anyway. I want to see who wins at Five Crowns.

You are Penna Dutch. Your lives and fellowship revolve around food. Sad? Mad? Glad? Wedding? Funeral? Tuesday? Well, Sunday… Time to eat! The motto at funerals is “They’re dead, we’re all here, let’s eat.”

You’re a practical people, to a painful fault. And quite dry and sarcastic in the humor, with an edge that can cut deep. You’ve been on both sides of that particular blade, both cutting and receiving.

So, no matter the screaming of Tradition, or the bite of sarcasm, or heck or high water (an actual concern in winter when you live on a river), Dad will have his shrimp.

Oh, shuckie darn.

Your granddaughter loves shrimp.

Your step-daughter loves shrimp.

Your hubs and you love shrimp.

Your mom loves shrimp.

Notice one missing?

I love when your mom takes pity on son-in-law, who can’t stand any seafood, and bakes him a small ham. A personal pan-ham, if you will. He’s a tall guy, so he packs a significant portion of it away while the rest of you shrimp-feast.

Because the Birthday Boy gets his way, but it does no harm to be kind. And Mom cooks it, so Dad can concentrate on the shrimp, and as long as you peel enough shrimp to keep up with your granddaughter’s amazing appetite (seriously, where did she put it, along with two bowls of grapes??), no one gets hurt. Though you should count your fingers after the meal, just to make sure you still have them.

Yes, it was hard on your dad growing up. He hunted and trapped with his uncle for the pelt money (which went right to your grandmother, to survive), but anything edible went on the table. Pop-Pop, your grandfather, was in the military, and your grandparents (not Penna Dutch) were too busy looking down on the unwashed masses (Penna Dutch) to help your grandmother when money got tight. You can imagine their commentary about mixed blood, when Pop-Pop defied them and married Grumum anyway. You have no need to ask how displeased I was at their unvarnished “opinions,” and their overall spirit at this time of year. I never stayed long for their “hospitality.” I would visit your Grumum when she cooked what your dad brought home, whatever it was. Small wonder Dad only fishes now to teach the fish what not to go for in the bait-on-a-hook department, and can’t stand eating any fish beyond an occasional cod or haddock filet. So you cook salmon for Mom, and Dad makes that face, and mutters things under his breath that even my delicate old-as-humanity ears should not hear. Because Dad went into the military too, as a cook, and learned lots of interesting curse words, and well as how to feed the masses.

But I understand, and I was there, and was with them in the mess hall when they ate fast-feast.

And years of “this is your birthday and Christmas present in one, here ya go” also took its toll. Your own birthday is almost exactly halfway through the year from Christmas, and to this day you’re convinced Mom and Dad planned it so you didn’t get the same treatment. Now, Dad only asks for two bags of his favorite potato chips, because he’s saved up enough over the years to buy his own toys whenever he wants, be it fishing gear, or a boat, or a truck, or a new generator. Whenever he wants them, because he can. And if you get some ring bologna when his craving hits, then I’m grateful he’s generous. So are you, and yes, it shows.

You got him a better Christmas present this year anyways, so you only owe him one bag of chips. It’s all good.

Like you, I’m extremely grateful he’s still around to be generous. Though you don’t want to think about it now, with the holiday season, but you know he goes in for cancer surgery the end of next month, and I know you’ll be with them, driving him and Mom into Philly and back. He’s beaten another cancer already, he can do it again, if they get ahead of it. And you’ll be there to help, and sit on him when he wants to do more than he should before he’s okayed for it. The fish will wait, Dad, with literal “baited” breath, for your triumphant return.

I’ll be there, too.

And your family, healthy around the kitchen table, with plates loaded with shrimp (and ham), is all you want for Christmas.