“What’s your favorite part of Christmas, Al?” Chris asked. The house, already burdened with lights, a tree, foodstuffs, and presents, was starting to explode from the dozen people who arrived for Christmas Eve dinner.
I smiled, chuckled under my breath, and actually thought about this. Let’s see, we’ve got layered traditions, family reunion, light in a time of darkness, and so many opportunities to get out of the rut. I really didn’t know, so I answered, “Uh, I think I just like it all.”
“Fair enough.”
Our dining room table has chairs for 6, and will fit 8 in a pinch. But 12 – we needed an alternative plan, and I didn’t have one. One problem with raising kids to think for themselves, they each believe they have the one best answer to any dilemma. We quickly settled on the need for an add-on table, not a separate “kids” ghetto. We have no kids in the group, the youngest being Annie at 19. No second brood little ones yet.
We tried out two different tables, one rectangular and one round. We explored a stub out from the middle, and an addition to one end. Putting a black vinyl round card table at the end of our elegant etched copper and mesquite wood table created a contrast too jarring even for our design-challenged family.
Luckily, my recycling wife had years ago switched from paper wrappings for presents to Christmas themed cloth fabricated into “present bags”. She’d bought a box full of the stuff, and never really completed the project, so Shaine dug around and found a 6’ x 6’ block of white and red Santa cloth to cover the offending addition. With the Christmas runner, poinsettia wine glasses, red and green candles, and winter-scene hand-painted plates covering the main table, it almost looked coordinated. Of course, I was sitting at the opposite end, and really couldn’t make a proper judgement.
Amazingly, everyone helped out to get the dinner to table almost all at once. Potatoes peeled and mashed, yams boiled, beans baked, salmon alder-grilled and garnished, cranberries smashed and stirred, peas unfrozen, wine uncorked, salad tossed, and condiments arranged, all on schedule, we were ready to sit and eat.
But first, a toast. Chris had the champagne bottle cork unwrapped, and was working the bulbous top out of the bubbly.
“Wait! Let me show you! We’ve got a special way we do that here.”
I led him to the door, opened it, and had him point the bottle into the night. Living in the middle of a five-acre wood, we feel free to pop our corks into the trees without fear the neighbors might be offended, or even hear. And we certainly aren’t at any risk of cracking someone else’s window.
He got the idea, if not the spirit, of the thing, and let go. But he’d already released some of the pressure, and the cork just dribbled into his fingers. We lost a chance for the mighty blast, but had a good drink nonetheless.
The older generation (there were four of us) started grilling the younger ones (twice as many, from 19 through 30) on real-life issues. Somehow we got around to Bergen (Caron’s 30 y/o son) and his love life. He was trying to defer questions about it.
“It’s complicated.” He said this after more than a few other obfuscations and pauses. The three mothers at the table tried to draw him out, seeming genuinely puzzled by what this might mean.
I instantly knew the score, though, and said, “Sounds like it’s a commitment mismatch.” Meaning she wanted him to commit to her, and he wasn’t about to say so, even if he felt that. “Complicated” often means that to a guy. They finally got him to admit it about 20 minutes later, as we were digging into the gingerbread, ice cream and Cool-Whip.
The team effort at dinner coordination continued as the table cleared in stages, with the dishwasher running and hand washing proceeding next to rinsing and drying. Tubs were found for leftovers, and what couldn’t fit in the refrigerator ended up on the card table, now set up in the freezing ante room between the garage and main house.
We were getting closer to the rock solid night time Christmas Eve tradition in our family, where we each open one present and I read A.A. Milne’s “King John’s Christmas” to a rowdy collection of siblings, tumbling all over each other to sit next to me on the long leather couch in front of the sparkling tree.
But first, there was apparently one more load of dishes. Shaine, our middle daughter (and Sig.O. of Chris) had trouble finding the dishwasher soap. We use those little square packs, half liquid and half packed granules; she instead chose the large generic bottle labeled “liquid dish soap” Cheryl buys at Costco. “Dish soap” – “Dishwasher soap” – it all seemed the same to her, especially in that giant bottle about the size and shape of an economy-sized container for Cascade. She filled the little receptacle, flipped the panel closed, shut the door, and turned it on.
Within 30 seconds, giant mounds of fluffy white bubbles started creeping, then flowing, and finally billowing through the supposedly water-tight seal of the dishwasher door.
“Looks like that Disney movie – what was it called?”
“Why is it doing that?”
“Shouldn’t we stop it or something?”
“Shaine! What did you use for soap?!”
A crisis response team formed in slow motion. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and we were all filled with good will, and not a little good cheer. No one wanted to disparage another’s emergency protocol, so we proceeded through everyone’s best guess as to what might help.
The first crew thought that running the dishwasher some more – particularly at the point in the cycle when fresh water would be spraying out – would quickly dissipate the suds.
“Hmm, heated drying? No, what about ‘Power Rinse and Hold’? Short wash? Maybe we should turn OFF the heated drying, AND the heated water?” The rest of us headed for higher ground as water followed the bubbles, quickly covering the linoleum beneath the machine. At least we might get the floor clean, I thought.
I put out an urgent call for towels from the laundry room – we have piles of them, being a family of swimmers who can’t throw anything away.
Next up was Cody. He opened the door, and started to remove the bulging dish caddies, which easily rolled out on their little plastic wheels. We placed them on the floor, which of course added to the spreading lake as they started draining. Another towel was quickly called for.
Jennifer jumped in, taking charge like she always does – married to a surgeon, she follows the dictum of her husband, “Don’t just stand there, do something!” She pulled the plastic 20 gallon garbage pail out from under the sink, ripped out the bag full of trash, and started bailing! The white foam filled the interior of the dishwasher at this point, so this actually seemed like a good idea. Someone else stepped in with a plastic jug, and began to transfer the suds into the garbage pail. It filled rather rapidly (suds being mostly air), so they ran outside with it, dumping the contents out onto the still living grass.
After several trips (and photos for posterity), I’d gotten all the amusement out of this I could, so the impulse to take over became overpowering. I started randomly playing with the dials, thinking I could discern the difference between water inflow and outflow. Each time we re-opened the door, the bubbles would still pour out, and Jennifer continued to fill the garbage can.
Finally, Angela suggested watering down the suds, trying to drown them, I guess. I pulled out the sink’s flexible sidespray , hoping it would reach into the dishwasher. Success! I then aimed the water at the bubbles, quickly breaking them down. But now we just had soapy water filling the interior bottom. Starting the cycle again just – started the whole cycle again. Soap bubbles careened out and up, making it look a little like the circus calliope had come to town.
“Just let it sit; the water will drain!”
“Yeah, but the soap won’t; that stuff is covering all the walls, and will just foam up again as soon as water hits it.”
It was true; but we forged on nonetheless. Spray a few times, run the cycle, rinse, repeat. After five minutes or so, we’d pretty much staunched the flow. Time to get those racks back in, and finish clean-up. We still had more dishes to wash, and King John was waiting, waiting, for a big, red, India-rubber ball.
Shaine asked, “How much soap should we put in?” Nobody laughed, even though it was the funniest thing I’d heard all night.