bogeyandruby

For several years in a row now, my brother and sister-in-law have invited both sides of their family to Christmas Eve dinner.

Elegant and ageless, my sister-in-law’s mother swept into the living room where my family was assembled, spotted my 88 year old, East Indian dad seated strategically in front of a plate of warm prosciutto on bread hors d’œuvres, and with arms extended, moved to embrace him.

My dad saw her coming and hurriedly reached for a snack (in the name of all those starving people in India), plopped it into his mouth then stood up, a long remnant of prosciutto hanging down his chin.

“I’ll just let you finish that, Paul.”, she said, graciously, before giving him a hug.

There was another incident later on that one night that I will blame on the combination of romantic dinner lighting and advancing macular degeneration, when my sweet-toothed father mistook the pat of butter on his side plate for a piece of limoncello cheesecake.

He made it home intact and opted to wear sweatpants to the catered meal he and my mother hosted for a small gathering the next day: Lac St.Jean meat pie with a veggie option for those of us who don’t eat rabbit and other cute animals.

At 88 you don’t have to decide on red or white wine, you have both. Plus two servings of dessert. This time the cake was orange-chocolate with crunchy hazelnut under bright lights. Definitely made with butter.