skipped me!” Albert smiled and refilled his glass.
Mickie commented, “Yes, and it wouldn’t be an Edwardian Christmas without a drunken king, would it?”
Soon Albert, with Herbert’s help, started to serve the ten courses that Victoria had prepared. Mickie said to Patience and me, “Please rate the different foods for me, girls. You, too, Hopewell. I want to have the young persons’ opinion.”
She may have regretted that request.
Victoria was a wonderful cook, but we had no use at all for the foods from the Edwardian era, and we said so as descriptively as we could.
The mince pies were “slimy-gross.”
The vegetable parcels were “vomit-inducing gross.”
The “Stilton rarebit” was “throw-up-on-toast gross.”
My father, at least, found our opinions amusing. He laughed at every one. And drank more wine. After the black bun, some sort of fruitcake that we agreed was “we-wouldn’t-put-that-in-our-mouths gross,” he announced to the group, “Charity never cared much for food.” He turned to me. “Remember when I was making ElectroPlus?”
I did, but just barely. I nodded.
Mr. Patterson asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s an energy drink that I invented, back when I was an inventor. It was like Smart Water, but without the caffeine. It could have gone global, too. But the University of Florida threatened to sue me over the patent, so I had to give it up.”
“Why? It was too much like their Gator drinks?”
“Exactly. Or so they claimed. So Charity was my first and only customer.”
I remembered more. I said, “There were different colors and flavors, right?”
He laughed delightedly. “Right. Six of them. For total daily nutrition. You were supposed to drink the six flavors, one at a time, at two-hour intervals. And it worked! You drank them and you remained very healthy. But then your mother got upset. She made you go back to solid foods.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”
My father extended his hands to include the Pattersons. “Forgive me for saying this in the middle of dinner, or at whatever stage we are in this monumental meal, but ElectroPlus also eliminated all solid wastes from daily life. Think of that. A feces-free existence!”
Patience burst out laughing; I think Hopewell smiled a little, too. But Mr. and Mrs. Patterson shifted uncomfortably and looked at their laps. Mickie did not react at all. I’m sure she considered the entire exchange to be dead airtime, but she let Kurt keep shooting and the meal went on.
After the final course, a deadly concoction called “gilded Christmas pudding,” which Patience pronounced “fresh-from-a-landfill gross,” my father proposed a toast of his own. He raised his glass, waited for everyone’s attention, and then announced,
“Feliz Navidad.”
Mr. Patterson asked, “Do you speak Spanish, Hank?”
“Sure. A little. I grew up in Miami.”
Mrs. Patterson looked amazed. “I grew up there, too. What part?”
“Kendall.”
“We were in Miami Shores.”
“Miami Shores isn’t as bad as Kendall, but it’s still pretty bad. Have you been back there lately?”
Mrs. Patterson looked at her husband. She answered emphatically, “Oh no. Roy drove us down there about ten years ago. I wanted to show the children the house I grew up in. I couldn’t believe it. The street looked like something you’d see in a war movie. We never even stopped the car.”
My dad pointed to Albert and Herbert. “I wouldn’t go back to my street today without these guys and an armored van. But still, in the spirit of the holiday,
La Natividad,
let’s all raise up our glasses.”
Everyone around the table raised a glass—some up high, like Patience and me; some barely off the table, like Mickie. My father repeated
“Feliz Navidad,”
and we all drank. Albert stepped forward to fill Dad’s glass. Then Dad continued, “Okay. Now we need a new toast.” He turned to Mickie. “See if you can guess who said this: ‘The rendering of useful
Mickie commented, “Yes, and it wouldn’t be an Edwardian Christmas without a drunken king, would it?”
Soon Albert, with Herbert’s help, started to serve the ten courses that Victoria had prepared. Mickie said to Patience and me, “Please rate the different foods for me, girls. You, too, Hopewell. I want to have the young persons’ opinion.”
She may have regretted that request.
Victoria was a wonderful cook, but we had no use at all for the foods from the Edwardian era, and we said so as descriptively as we could.
The mince pies were “slimy-gross.”
The vegetable parcels were “vomit-inducing gross.”
The “Stilton rarebit” was “throw-up-on-toast gross.”
My father, at least, found our opinions amusing. He laughed at every one. And drank more wine. After the black bun, some sort of fruitcake that we agreed was “we-wouldn’t-put-that-in-our-mouths gross,” he announced to the group, “Charity never cared much for food.” He turned to me. “Remember when I was making ElectroPlus?”
I did, but just barely. I nodded.
Mr. Patterson asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s an energy drink that I invented, back when I was an inventor. It was like Smart Water, but without the caffeine. It could have gone global, too. But the University of Florida threatened to sue me over the patent, so I had to give it up.”
“Why? It was too much like their Gator drinks?”
“Exactly. Or so they claimed. So Charity was my first and only customer.”
I remembered more. I said, “There were different colors and flavors, right?”
He laughed delightedly. “Right. Six of them. For total daily nutrition. You were supposed to drink the six flavors, one at a time, at two-hour intervals. And it worked! You drank them and you remained very healthy. But then your mother got upset. She made you go back to solid foods.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”
My father extended his hands to include the Pattersons. “Forgive me for saying this in the middle of dinner, or at whatever stage we are in this monumental meal, but ElectroPlus also eliminated all solid wastes from daily life. Think of that. A feces-free existence!”
Patience burst out laughing; I think Hopewell smiled a little, too. But Mr. and Mrs. Patterson shifted uncomfortably and looked at their laps. Mickie did not react at all. I’m sure she considered the entire exchange to be dead airtime, but she let Kurt keep shooting and the meal went on.
After the final course, a deadly concoction called “gilded Christmas pudding,” which Patience pronounced “fresh-from-a-landfill gross,” my father proposed a toast of his own. He raised his glass, waited for everyone’s attention, and then announced,
“Feliz Navidad.”
Mr. Patterson asked, “Do you speak Spanish, Hank?”
“Sure. A little. I grew up in Miami.”
Mrs. Patterson looked amazed. “I grew up there, too. What part?”
“Kendall.”
“We were in Miami Shores.”
“Miami Shores isn’t as bad as Kendall, but it’s still pretty bad. Have you been back there lately?”
Mrs. Patterson looked at her husband. She answered emphatically, “Oh no. Roy drove us down there about ten years ago. I wanted to show the children the house I grew up in. I couldn’t believe it. The street looked like something you’d see in a war movie. We never even stopped the car.”
My dad pointed to Albert and Herbert. “I wouldn’t go back to my street today without these guys and an armored van. But still, in the spirit of the holiday,
La Natividad,
let’s all raise up our glasses.”
Everyone around the table raised a glass—some up high, like Patience and me; some barely off the table, like Mickie. My father repeated
“Feliz Navidad,”
and we all drank. Albert stepped forward to fill Dad’s glass. Then Dad continued, “Okay. Now we need a new toast.” He turned to Mickie. “See if you can guess who said this: ‘The rendering of useful
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