As much as I value the tradition of Family Supper, I'm not as big a fan of the holidays. They always feel so forced to me; like everyone is putting on a play or something. They're always so much more tense than our monthly suppers are.
Of course things are more strained for me this year since I am still on the family black list after my stunt with the wine. Andi, my cousin, is about the only one really talking to me, which doesn't really bother me that much.
It's not like they can really exclude me from family gatherings though, can they? At Thanksgiving I was expressly forbidden from bringing a dish. I did, of course, but no one would touch it, which just mean more Pumpkin Pie Horchata Foam for me and Andi to share.
Of course as the holidays roll on, we must gather for Christmas at my parents' house. It was snowing really hard, and a part of me wanted to call off, claiming that I couldn't make it through the storm, but I just couldn't do it. They are my family after all.
We had dinner by candlelight first. We didn’t use candles because it looked nice, but because as Mom was bringing food to the table, the storm knocked the power out. After a fair bit of stumbling around in the darkness with only the light from our cellphone screens to guide us, we managed to find the candles and emergency lights.
Christmas or not, blackout or not, this was still a family meal, and it could not go by without a fight. It was Dad that started it; he was ranting about how all of the Occupy Wall Street people are jobless, communist hippies. I held my tongue for as long as I could, but I finally had enough. I've sat through so much stupid at family meals that I simply had to join the fray this time.
I left the table, and grabbed my iPad from my bag. I brought it back, and loaded up pictures from the protests to show him; pictures of senior citizens, construction workers, veterans in dress uniform, and I asked, “Do these people look like hippies to you, Dad?”
He flipped through the pictures in a way that told me he was just humouring me.
“These people are us, Dad,” I said, “These people are the workers of this country; the people who actually do things. Without the ninety-nine percent doing all of the heavy lifting the one percent at the top wouldn't be able to enjoy the wealth, luxury, and success that they do, and I don't think it's unreasonable for the vast majority of us to expect fair treatment by them and by the government they own.”
“Don't you work for the one percent?” Kitty, my sister, asked.
I shot her a dirty glare, “We all work for the one percent, but not everyone in the one percent is such a greedy asshole that they-”
“Honey, language!” Mom cut me off, “Now put that away,” she said, referring to my iPad, “You know that we don't allow toys at the table.”
Kitty snickered.
I fumed through the rest of dinner, making snarky comments as I deemed appropriate (they almost certainly weren't appropriate, but I was hot enough that the falling snow would not have landed on my head before turning to vapor). I realize now that my behaviour was inappropriate, but at the time I was so angry that I did not realize that it was really me that was ruining this meal.
Desert was served; the usual stuff, pies, cakes, etc. My contribution was peppermint caviar, which only Andi and I ate, spooned over vanilla ice cream and Aunt Ginny's chocolate mint cake. I was still angry, and Andi kept giving me pleading looks, but I ignored her.
“Here,” Kitty said, placing a wine glass down in front of me, “This might cool you off a bit.”
Yes, alcohol was just the thing to calm me, so I took a long drink to help me relax. The wine was cold, and good, and it tasted familiar; it was sweet, but not too sweet. I examined the glass.
“Good, huh?” Kitty asked.
“Yeah,” I said, still looking at it, “What is it? I think I've had this before.”
“You have,” Kitty said, looking like the proverbial cat that at the canary.
I suddenly remembered that Kitty had come to my house the previous week. She said she wanted to look through some of great-grandma's holiday decorations in the basement. I had not thought about the fact that my little personal lab is down there, and I didn't think to look at the box of stuff that she had left with.
“Is this m-” my voice stopped, and my hand shot to my throat. There was no pain, which I knew since I had tried this trick out on myself long before I used it on my family. My throat would simply be unable to produce sound for the next couple of hours.
Everyone at the table started laughing, even Andi, which made me feel bad for a moment. This wasn't fair, of course, as everyone at that table, save for my cousin over there giggling through a mouth of cake and minty caviar, had already been on the receiving end of this same trick. What choice did I have but to sit there silently, having been hoist with my own petard, and enjoy the rest of our family Christmas?
At least I got the new Cryo Gun I wanted.