Chapter 2 - A Very Merry Christmas

Now that the restrictions were finally over, our parents decided that Christmas would be a good moment to get to know the potential parents-in-law they might be dealing with in the foreseeable future, so they invited the Micelli's over for a Boxing day dinner.

This did lead to some discussion as to why Boxing day always followed unboxing day. It just doesn't make sense. Unless you wish to quickly repackage any unwanted presents, to give away next year of course. A quick web search showed that we were quite close with that assumption, although it was not for next year and we didn't have any servants other than Robyn and myself. We never get reboxed stuff after Boxing Day.

When that was sorted out, preparations were started.

Together with Robyn, I devised a selective-bunch-of-mistletoe-on-a-pulley-system in the hallway. We both had a remote control for it, in the hope that we would be able to reach consensus on each encounter at the door. (Two-way democracies can be tricky).

The table setting with name cards had been determined weeks ago. This had given Mom a headache and a near nervous breakdown, especially due to the odd number caused by my three-way relationship with the Twins and the insistence of Robyn to also invite her Girl Geek friends Joan, Mary, Allana and Allana's crush Chris, bringing the total number up to twelve people and an estimated six different dietary wish lists, ranging from raw meat to vegan through high carb and sugar free.

At the stroke of 1900 hours, the doorbell rang with military precision. Mum opened the door revealing the Roman chiselled face of Mr. Micelli in an immaculate black tux and dark sunglasses, black oiled hair combed straight backwards. I noticed a transparent curly wire from his collar to one ear, so he might either still be on duty for tonight or he had left open the possibility to call for backup if he didn't like what he saw. Looking at Robyn, we decided to save Mom and not to bring out the mistletoe just yet. Mrs. Micelli followed, wearing a mostly aquamarine dirndl dress with various seashells along the lower waterline. I stepped forward to greet her with a handshake and to better position myself for what would follow. A quick look back showed an evil grin on my sister, remote control in her hand. I shot back a massive frown before composing my face into something suitable and turning to my guests. My heart nearly stopped for several reasons. The twins had gone all out. They were stunning in their black and glittery evening dresses. The tricky bit was that they apparently decided to dress completely identical. This included the same burgundy colour of lipstick, eliminating the usual marker to distinguish between the two.

I pushed the remote button to bring in the mistletoe. It vanished just as fast with a buzz and a zip. A quick glance at Robyn revealed her tongue sticking out at me. I pushed and held the button. The shuddering piece of mistletoe reminded me of tug-of-war world championship I saw years ago. The smell of hyacinth and curls of smoke started to come down from the competing servos. To collapse the waveform of a potential Schrödinger's mistletoe, I reached up and yanked the piece of string in the desired position before using the other arm to try and embrace both twins, taking multiple samples of the burgundy lipstick in the process. Releasing the string and the remote control button at the same time caused the remaining servo motor to thrash the mistletoe terminally, leaving everyone else out of potentially forced herbalogical romantics upon entry. Full of confidence, I led Star and Portia Micelli to their named seats beside mine, getting compliments for getting it right and letting everyone else wonder how I figured out which one was which, as even their parents didn't know. According to Mr. Micelli, they already found out how to bypass his usual lie detector test at the age of four. (The trick was the lingering taste and smell of mint and cherries from their usual green and red lipstick, but don't tell anyone, because I prefer to be the only one doing the tasting).

According to my sister, her friends arrived fashionably later, but I must have missed that, for reasons unknown.

Once everyone was seated and Dad had spoken some wise words which impressed me so much I can't recall any of them at the time I write this down, we had a toast with various drinks appropriate for the age, before throwing that overboard for the rest of the evening.

The starters were considered a success after Mrs. Micelli dissected the calamari to determine what subspecies had been sacrificed for our pleasure and sustenance. Using a small test kit from a slim titanium container, Mr. Micelli confirmed that the white powder served with the small pancakes was actual undiluted powdered sugar and was safe for moderate consumption. This led to a round of applause from the girl geeks.

The main course and 'Pièce the resistance' was carried in with the help of 'You want to see what I can do with my biceps?'- Chris. Mom had manage to create a sort of chronological edible artwork on a long silver platter, incorporating all the dietary wishes in one go and which I will attempt to describe here. The total image looked like a whole hog chasing an apple pie in the making. From left to right (from my point of view) there were: Fresh whole apples moving on to a collection of apple pieces, raisins and cinnamon, turning into apple pie, which was closely followed by a whole roast hog and a display of cranberry artwork. Due to the hog's size, the tail end had remained outside the oven, ticking off the raw meat requirement nicely.

A razor sharp filleting knife appeared from Mr. Micelli's sleeve with a snap as he took the honour of systematically slicing the hog, while Dad butchered the apple pie into thirteen unequal chunks with an old bread knife.

Dessert was made by Mrs. Micelli. She insisted on keeping the recipe secret until after consumption of said dessert. It turned out to be tiramisu with tuna milk mascarpone and a deep-fried sea cucumber base, which might explain the salty aftertaste.

Once the meal was finished, the adults went to the living room (the dads discussing and tasting their shed-distillation experiments, the mums looking at the photo albums that I'd rather have locked away forever). This left the attic for us, the adolescents.

We discussed the technical aspects of making love as a mental exercise and decided unanimously that you can't just make love out of nothing. It should occur naturally. (maybe with a little help of a few friends and a rigged questionnaire, but don't tell Chris).

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