 The
days are shorter and the air crisper: time to winterize our boat. We store
the canvas, add extra fenders, break out the storm lines and remove non-essential
items, including foodstuffs. Foodstuffs, ha! I have to laugh. That's all
I need, more foodstuffs cluttering the sagging cupboard shelves, especially
with the holidays just around the corner. Holidays around our house consist
of belt-busting, mouth-watering bounties. The first round begins in November
and centers on tiny pumpkins and a wicker horn of plenty. The second round
in December is displayed on traditional port and starboard, red and green
tablecloths.
While the little ones dream of sugarplums
dancing in their heads, I lightly dance fresh nutmeg across a chorus line
of thick, creamy and highly spirited eggnogs. This year I'll choose to
pass up the one-ton fruitcake slices, but will quickly join with everyone's
laughter and gaiety while comparing freshly adorned, powder-sugar mustaches.
"Save room for dinner!" murmurs
from everyone's lips, as we all try to conceal our own piece of fudge,
confection, cookie or chip piled high with dip. "Ordervie" trays
keep rotating around the room as we consume in wild abandon, hoping to
stifle the roasting turkey smell saturating our starving palates. Conversations
become more difficult to understand as slurring, drooling and sleeve-wiping
increases. Throat muscles tighten, threatening to cramp. Best have another
fudge cube. Must keep the passageway open. Ah! That's better.
I strain for the eight-bell (end of a long
watch) sounds of a carving knife gliding across the steel sharpener to
hone a true edge. A manly edge indeed, one that must endure the test of
slicing crisp roasted skin without tearing. Delicate skin, tenderly basted
many hours in rare spices, butter and a chef's love. Nervous adult laughter
builds as we join the crusade heading toward the dining room. I want to
run, pulling the slower ones to the side as my older brother did to me
so many years ago, but my first mate shoves a camera in my palm.
"Here, be a love and take a few,"
she winks.
I stand off in the corner. A punished schoolboy
watching them drink in steaming memories. The kitchen door opens amid
a rising round of applause and cheer. The main course has arrived, doubling
my hunger pang. The roasted turkey is soon surrounded with fresh oyster
dressing. Fluffy mashed potatoes scream to be drowned in thick giblet
gravy. Chilled cranberry sauces (jelled and chunky) shine ruby red through
leaded crystal. I fumble, searching for the shutter as marshmallows slip
off brown-sugared candy yams. Cold, crisp radishes shaped into roses adorn
long celery stems, next to baby pickles harpooned by round wooden toothpicks.
Our niece shows off her black olive "fingernails."
"Say cheese!" I half yell over
the stomach growl rising into the back of my throat.
Time stands still, as still as the chemicals
etching this moment behind the lens. I capture forced, tight smiles holding
back tsunami drool.
"Don't forget to take one from the
other side of the room," reminds the first mate (causing my place
setting approach to be reevaluated).
I pass center stage. The steamy turkey
surrenders to the talented chef as juicy white and dark slices flutter
onto the serving tray. Brown crispy skin remains intact as a tempting
piece is picked up, popped behind pursed lips and proclaimed, "I
don't think there will be room for dessert."
The room erupts in applause, fluttering
holiday napkins and cheers as I humbly seek refuge against the far wall,
point the darn camera and request once again, "Say cheese."
Smiles give way to deep, long swallows,
rising steam beading across focused foreheads, and finally frenzied consumption.
After a day of preparation it's, "I need a nap! That's the best dinner
yet! No, the turkey wasn't dry, it was perfect."
Yes, it was perfect. Just like this year's
boating season. Barbara and I wish you the best of holidays and a grand
New Year. 
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