Liza holds onto me like a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean during a hurricane. When she finally releases her grip, it’s only to look at me from arm’s length. “Cat, you’re gorgeous! I swear you were the prettiest girl in town, and you’re an even more beautiful woman.” I could get used to compliments like this.

  Ned grabs me, picks me up, and twirls me around. “Kitty Cat, you haven’t seen my new chopper! What say we take a ride together later?” Ned’s new motorcycle could be seven years old for all I know, but he asks me to go riding with him like no time has passed since our last adventure, leaving me so full of emotion I could choke.

  Sam walks in last and greets me like a recalcitrant puppy who got caught chewing his owner’s slipper. Good, he’s taken my hint from his little middle of the night visit. “Cat, how are you?”

  “Tired,” I snap.

  I lead the way into the living room and everyone follows behind. I introduce the Hawkings to Ethan’s parents. “Liza, Ned, I’d like you to meet Natalie and Jason Crenshaw, my future in-laws.”

  Natalie and Jason stand up with smiles on their faces and their hands extended in greeting. Liza and Ned don’t follow suit. After a long moment, Liza finds her voice and says, “I’m sorry, what?”

  “My future mother and father in-law,” I enunciate slowly and perhaps a bit too loudly.

  Ned looks positively bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  I feel like I’ve fallen through a crack into an alternate universe. I’m not quite sure if everyone stopped speaking the language, or perhaps they’re stroking out like Nan. So, when Ethan stands up, I explain, “This is Ethan, my fiancé.”

  That’s when Sam decides to join in, exclaiming, “Your what?”

  What’s wrong with everyone? Have I started speaking Dutch or something. So, I try again, “Liza, Ned, Sam . . .” I break to make sure they’re tracking me. “This . . .”—I spokesmodel Ethan with big dramatic hand gestures—“is my FIANCÉ.” I almost yell the last word.

  Liza turns to my dad and asks, “Dougal, what is she talking about?”

  My dad looks sheepish and replies, “Did I forget to mention that Cat is engaged?”

  What the hell? I stare at my father with an expression that demands explanation. He looks down and starts to wobble nervously from side-to-side. “Well, honey, you’ve only just gotten engaged. I didn’t . . . um . . . what I mean is . . . uhhhhh . . . well . . . I guess I just forgot to mention it.” I don’t remind him I’ve been engaged for over a year.

  Sam runs his hands through his hair like he’s trying to wash it or something. Then he looks at me with haunted eyes. “You’re engaged?”

  I can’t help it, I almost yell, “What’s wrong with you people? Liza, Ned, Sam . . .” —break for emphasis—“THIS is the man I’m going to marry and his parents. For the love of God, please say hello to them.”

  All of a sudden everyone seems to get their bearings and they reach out and clasp hands, pretending this isn’t the most awkward scene in the history of the world.

  Ethan catches my eye and pulls me off to the side. “Are these people okay?” Then he points to his head and rolls his eyes from side to side. “Or are they a few bricks short of a full load?”

  I shake my head. At this moment I feel like we’re all a few bricks short of a full load, whatever the hell that means. Ethan pulls a CD out of his suit pocket with a plaid bow on it and says, “I bought this for your grandmother. Would now be a good time to give it to her?”

  I shrug my shoulders to indicate now is probably as good a time as any, thinking we could all use a distraction from the weirdness. So, Ethan walks over to Nan, who so far has barely given him the time of day, and hands her his gift.

  Nan takes it, looks at it closely, and sees it’s an Enya Christmas CD. She audibly scoffs, then hands it back to Ethan and declares, “Enya isn’t Scottish.”

  Make Mine a Double

  Nan is so happy to see Sam she’s nearly sitting on his lap. She says things like, “There’s my fine boy,” and “I’ve missed you so much, lad.” Now might be the time to mention that Sam doesn’t have slacks on under his kilt and he looks better than I remember—very confident with his manly knees on display. Nan seems to be enjoying them, as well.

  Meanwhile, Ethan is standing in the corner pouting, no doubt feeling hurt by the rebuff of his gift. I don’t blame him in the least. Not only was Nan exceedingly rude to him, but no one is making an effort to make him feel included in their private little club.

  His parents seem to be holding their own though, which is good. My mom has managed to mostly keep herself in the kitchen, so I excuse myself to check on her. Ethan nearly tackles me to the ground as I pass. With panic in his eyes, he begs, “Don’t leave me here.”

  I sigh. “Come with me if you want, but I need to check on the dessert.” He sticks to my side like glue.

  When we get into the hall, he demands, “What’s going on in there? Who are those people and what’s wrong with them?”

  I shake my head. “They’re old friends of my parents. Sam and I used to go to school together. End of story.” While not the full truth, no part of my answer is a lie. It just doesn’t seem worth going into the whole sordid affair when we’re never going to see them again. And believe me, after that circus, we are NEVER going to see them again.

  We walk into the kitchen to find my mom sitting on the floor next to the oven like a forgotten rag doll. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  She startles and looks up. “Nothing, dear. I’m just thinking.”

  “On the kitchen floor?” Ethan asks. I want to push a button and have this day end. Of course, my mother chooses this time to break with reality. I mean, why wouldn’t she? It’s not like my fiancé and his family are here or we have guests or it’s Thanksgiving.

  My mom gestures for Ethan to join her. He looks at me to see what I think he should do, so I say, “Go.”

  He gingerly sits on the linoleum next to her, and she takes his hand. After several long seconds, where I’m sure Ethan is once again wondering about the sanity of my gene pool, my mom announces, “Sometimes when things don’t look right from one perspective, I like to view them from another perspective.” Then she turns to him and asks, “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  He shakes his head. “Not even a little bit.”

  My mom tries again. “The kitchen looks one way when you’re on your feet. It looks another way when you’re sitting at the table. But when you’re on the floor, it’s a brand new room altogether.”

  Ethan looks like he wants to cry. He’s clearly not used to the bizarre ponderings of the woman I call “Mom.” He asks, “Mrs. Masterton, are you happy on the floor? Do you like the way your kitchen looks from here?”

  My mom shakes her head sadly. “I don’t.”

  “Then why are you sitting here?”

  She exhales as though unloading all the burdens of the world. “Because I don’t like how it looks from any vantage point anymore. I stood up, I sat in a chair, and now I’m on my floor. The truth is, I just don’t think I like my kitchen anymore.”

  Ethan is more confused than ever, but I’m not. I know the kitchen is just a metaphor for something else my mom is questioning. Granted she’s doing so on the floor, while there’s a load of people in the other room waiting for her version of Thanksgiving dinner. It isn’t the best time to be having a crisis of faith, but holidays always bring out the best and worst in us. They make us reflect on the past and look to the future. They cast a glaring spotlight on the present, and often force us see things in a new way we don’t always find pleasing.

  Thanks Be, Already

  My dad stands at the head of the table and holds his hands out, palms up, like that picture of Jesus found in most Sunday school rooms, except Jesus was never wearing a tartan. He booms, “Some hae meat and cannae eat. Some nae meat but want it. We hae meat and we can eat and sae the Lord be thankit.”

  Ethan catches my eye as if to ask, “What kind of prayer is that?”

  I choose that moment to stand up, which isn’t our tradition at all. All eyes turn to me, wondering what I’m up to. I look every single person in the eye, one at a time, with excruciating thoroughness while wearing a borderline psychotic grin on my face. Then I announce, “I’m particularly thankful this year and think this is the perfect time to share my gratitude with my loved ones.”

  Travis burps in the background, but as I’m not including him in my “loved ones” category, I could care less. “I’m grateful the man I love asked me to marry him.” I grace Ethan with a thousand-watt smile. He looks marginally uncomfortable to be the center of attention but seems to appreciate the sentiment.

  “Ethan and I have been together for two years.” I hold up two fingers high over my head to illustrate my statement. “We’ve been living in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City for a year.” I’m sure this last bit is going beyond the bounds of tastefulness, but I don’t care. I want to make it clear that we’re together in every sense of the word.

  “We read the paper in bed, together.” Pointed stare at Nan. “We go for long walks through Central Park and feed the ducks on the boating pond, together.” Pointed stare at Sam. “We sit on the kitchen floor and ponder the meaning of life, together.” No, we don’t, but I stare at my mother while I say this, and she won’t meet my gaze.

  I clear my throat and continue, “I’m in love with Ethan because he’s constant and true. He would never leave me or throw me away. He’s my partner and the future father of my children.” I smile over at Natalie and Jason when I say this. After all, they’re the ones who raised this paragon, and I want to give them a bit of credit during my unorthodox speech. They seem to appreciate it and nod their heads encouragingly, unlike everyone else who looks like they’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with them.

  I raise my glass in a toast, “To Ethan!” Then I face him, “Thank you for seeing my value as a woman and partner. Thank you for the life we’re building together and for never breaking my heart.” Then I take a sip of my wine. Okay fine, maybe I drink three quarters of the glass, but only because I’m so darn thrilled.

  Then my mother stands up and takes center stage. Oh Jesus, God, what have I done? She picks up her glass and announces, “I’d like to toast my daughter, Cat.” Ho-lee crap. It’s on.

  Facing me, she says, “Cat, I know we’ve not always been the family you wanted. I know we embarrass you at times and that it’s hard for you to accept us as we are. But we’ve always done our best by you and we always will. We’re proud of the woman you’ve become. We support all of your good choices . . .” —she looks at Sam, of all people, when she says this— “and we hope you understand that our actions are only with your best interests in mind. To Cat!” I have to pour another glass for myself after that one.

  I’m sure you’re aware that by this point I’ve unleashed the collective family beast and quite possibly started a dangerous new tradition. Nan pushes herself up next with some difficulty. I’m hoping to hell that when she went downstairs to get her sweater, she rolled a fat one and got higher than a kite, otherwise I have no idea what we’re in for. She picks up her wine glass, drinks it down, pours herself another, raises it high in the air, and salutes, “To that bitch Dorcas Abernathy! He may have asked you first, but he was my husband for fifty-one years. Take that, whore!”

  We all drink to that one. Not that the Crenshaws know what it’s all about, but at this point in the game, everyone understands inebriation is on the menu if we’re going to get through the coming meal alive.

  Before anyone else can stand up, I move to the sideboard to get the soup tureen. “We don’t want the Cullen skink getting cold, now do we?” I look at my mom, “Mags, what do you say, want to help me?”

  My mom shakes her head. “We can always heat up the soup, honey. I think we should go around the table and see if there are any other toasts, don’t you?” I would rather chew off my own arm, but I suppose I started this, so I might as well suffer through everyone else’s feelings.

  Ethan senses thing aren’t quite right, and God bless him and the horse he rode in on, he stands up and raises his glass to my parents. “To our hosts! Thank you for preparing this lovely meal!” We all drink again.

  Natalie and Jason pass on the opportunity to add to their son’s sentiment, thank God.

  Liza stands up next, “I would like to toast common sense.” What the hell? She looks at Sam and says, “Sometimes in life we make stupid decisions because we’re young and don’t know any better.” Then she looks at me, “And sometimes we make the wrong choices because our feelings are hurt, and pride gets in our way.” Then she raises her glass, “To common sense. May we all have it and not be afraid to use it!”

  Travis stands up, lets out a loud whoop and adds, “Hell, yeah! Put that in your pipe, Cat!”

  I’ve had three glasses of wine at this point on an empty stomach. I’m no longer tipsy, I’m borderline drunk. Just when I think this meal can’t go downhill any farther, flipping Sam stands up.

  He raises his glass high and the room is positively vibrating with anticipation. “To first loves!” Everyone but me raises their glass with him. “They are one of the most wonderful gifts in life. May we always be thankful for them. May we always do right by them and may we always cherish the memories if that’s all we have left!”

  While everyone drinks, I excuse myself from the table and hit the powder room under the back stairs. When I’m done, I yell, “FLUSH!” as loud as I can in critique of Sam’s toast.

  Feed Me

  Mom never does reheat the Cullen skink and it’s lukewarm at best by the time it’s served, and we finally start to eat. It probably wouldn’t matter if it was a solid block of ice. We’re all so hungry and drunk we’d undoubtedly bite the head off a live snake if that’s all there was.

  The tatties and herring are slightly charred by the time they’re rescued from the oven and put on the table, and the black pudding is, well, black pudding. In my humble opinion, you can’t make that worse than it already is: pig, lamb, and goose blood mixed with assorted ground meats, suet, and spices, stuffed into natural casings—a.k.a animal intestines—and served. Yeah, no thanks.

  The meal lasts the better part of seventy-two hours or feels like it does anyway. Hardly anyone speaks during dinner, which is a blessing. There doesn’t seem to be anything left to say that we didn’t air during our toasting hour. It’s just a whole bunch of silverware clanking and chewing sounds.

  My bringing Ethan home was all about us sharing our wedding plans with our parents. It was about us uniting our families as one. But now, there’s no way we can do that without pulling the pin out of a grenade that’s past primed to explode.

  I get up and start clearing the dishes when most have finished eating, since I need to get the clootie dumpling, my contribution to the meal. I don’t bother scraping and stacking the plates, I just dump them all in the sink for whatever poor sucker gets stuck with cleanup. God knows it isn’t going to be me.

  I pull the two dumpling cloths out of the oven and plop them on a serving dish, then I grab a bottle of Glenfiddich and head back to the dining room like a condemned prisoner. My mom has stacked a pile of dessert plates at my place.

  I know what’s coming next, and I’m so full of dread over it, I can barely carry on. But if I leave now, I’ll tip my hand to giving a rat’s ass about a certain someone sitting at the table, and I absolutely refuse to do that. I cut open the strings on the cloths holding the dumplings. Then I set them on the serving dish and pull the stopper out of the scotch with my teeth before dousing the dessert until it’s soaked through.

  Finally, I strike a match and set it on fire. My whole family and Sam’s have already crossed their arms over their chests and taken the hands of those standing next to them. Ethan and his family follow suit, so it’s just me they’re waiting on. Finally, I do the same and when the entire table is connected this way, and the fire burns out on the dessert, my dad’s deep baritone rings out like the voice of God.

  “Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?

  Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne?

  For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

  We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

  And surely, you'll buy your pint cup! and surely, I'll buy mine!

  And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

  For the next verse he looks between me and Sam as though dedicating it to us.

  We two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine;

  But we've wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne.

  We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine;

  But seas between us broad have roared since auld lang syne.

  And there's a hand my trusty friend! And give us a hand o' thine!

  And we'll take a right good-will draught, for auld lang syne.”

  “Auld Lang Syne” isn’t traditionally a New Year’s song, like we’ve grown to think of it. An old Scotsman gave it to Robert Burns in 1788 to write down and make sure it got passed on. As I look around our Thanksgiving table, there’s a lot of “old time sake” to be had, so the song seems more appropriate this year than most, even if it does dredge up a lot of the past that I wish had remained there.

  When it’s over, and we’ve unchained ourselves from one another, I serve the pudding and pass the dishes around the table. I take a double helping, because I only get it once a year and I made it so, why the heck shouldn’t I?

  My dad pours everyone a wee dram of the Glenfiddich and gives our traditional toast. “To old times and new times, to old friends and new! May we live long enough to sing about our new adventures as old. A h-uile la sona dhuibh‘s gun la idir dona dhuibh. Slàinte mhòr agus a h-uile beannachd duibh!”