The Christmas Dinner I Drove Across Town

Christmas Eve

I told Kurt in the morning, before he left, standing in the kitchen in his uniform with his thermos.

I told him all of it, and I watched his face, because if he’d said no I would not have done it.

He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Her house is for sale, Mandy. She won’t want people in it.”

And I said, “Then she shouldn’t have invited them into mine.” That came out sharper than I meant.

He rubbed his eyes. He’s a fair man, Kurt. He looks at both sides of a thing so long sometimes you want to shake him.

But he had sat in his coat on that bench and heard his sister say “It’s done.”

“It’s her party,” he finally said, slow, like he was trying out the words. “All right. I’ll stay back at the house tomorrow and turn around anybody who doesn’t see the text. Then I’ll go get Grandma.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I know she’s your sister.” He put his thermos down and hugged me with one arm, the uniform still cold from the truck.

“You’re my wife,” he said, “and you’ve been peeling potatoes since Tuesday.”

That night we didn’t go to the candlelight service. I’m sorry for that now. I baked the rolls and the macaroni and the sweet potatoes and the corn casserole, and Kurt boiled and peeled four dozen eggs at the kitchen table without complaining once.

At eleven o’clock he held up an egg that had come out of its shell in about six pieces.

“This one’s for me,” he said, and ate it whole, and I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the floor.

Christmas Morning

The ham went in at six. A country ham that size wants a long, slow bake with a little water in the bottom of the pan and the lid on tight, then the lid off at the end for the brown sugar glaze.

The house smelled like smoke and cloves by seven. The rolls rose on top of the dryer, under a clean towel, because the dryer is the warmest spot in our house in December.

I made the seven layer salad in Kurt’s mother’s old glass trifle bowl.

By ten o’clock the kitchen looked like a church supper. Eleven dishes in foil, lined up on the counter and the stove and the kitchen table.

Plus the ham, sitting in its big silver roasting pan with a domed lid, too heavy to carry far with one hand.

Kurt backed the navy Suburban up to the garage and put the rear seats down. We packed every dish in old bath towels so they would ride warm and not slide, the casseroles in the back and the cold things on the floor behind the front seats.

I put on my red sweater. I almost didn’t. It’s my Christmas sweater, the one I wear every year, and I thought for a minute it might look like I was dressing up to make a point.

Then I thought, no, it’s Christmas, and I put it on.

At 10:15 I sat down on the edge of the bed and sent one message to the family group.

I had written it the night before and fixed it four times. I want you to know I kept it kind.

“Merry Christmas, everyone! Since Renae is our hostess this year, dinner will be at her house. Same time, 1:00. All the food is on its way over now. We love you and we’ll see you there.”

Then I turned my phone over, picked up my keys, and went out to the car. Kurt stood in the garage door in his flannel and his slippers with his coffee and watched me back out. He lifted his cup to me like a toast.