“She’s clearly trying to impress everyone,” Michael said. “She always goes to Asian dishes with … unusual ingredients when she wants to impress.”

“She said she knew people would be tired of ordinary holiday fare by the time they came to her dinner,” I said.

We wrapped in silence for a few minutes.

“You know,” I said finally. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“The whole idea of getting tired of the usual holiday fare,” I said. “I like holiday fare. Turkey. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. Pumpkin pie. I like them.”

“I assume everyone does. Or almost everyone.”

“And I never understand all the fuss about how to use up leftover turkey. What’s wrong with just eating it the way it comes, at least while the gravy lasts? I’m always a little sad when the turkey runs out.”

“I agree,” he said.

“But unfortunately neither of our mothers does,” I said. “And please don’t repeat this to them—”

“Of course not.”

“Because I feel horribly ungrateful complaining about this. They’re going to a world of trouble, and fixing us fabulous, gourmet fare.”

“That you can’t eat.”

“Some of which I can’t eat, but that’s beside the point. Even if they fixed something I could eat—something I liked, like steak—I’d still kind of miss the traditional fare. Turkey, cooked in a normal way, not stuffed with crustaceans. And with good old artery-clogging southern gravy. Mashed potatoes. Cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie. Tomato aspic. Don’t make a face—Mother’s tomato aspic is more like Bloody Mary–flavored Jell-O.”

“Still—aspic?” Michael still sounded dubious. “Did you like it that much?”

“I didn’t hate it,” I said. “And it was traditional. What I’m trying to say is that I miss all the things I used to have at Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was growing up. Back when Mother drafted Mrs. Fenniman to do her cooking. Mrs. Fenniman was an excellent plain cook. Forget losing weight on her cooking, and if you valued your life, you didn’t make a suggestion about how to do something differently, but if you liked good, plain southern cooking, Mrs. Fenniman was the queen.”

“I remember,” Michael said. “Who’s helping your mother this holiday?”

“Some poor cousin from Matthews County whose husband is spending Christmas on the USS Harry S Truman,” I said. “She’s a wonderful cook, and willing to put up with Mother’s strangest suggestions, and I’m sure it will all be delicious. But it’s—it’s not the tradition I grew up with. And I feel terrible complaining to you, because I know having strange and unusual food is your Christmas tradition.”

“Some tradition,” he said. “Every year something different, from some other part of the world. The first time I had a holiday dinner with your family, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”