Author's note: The chapter you are about to read does not follow the chronological order of the story, as it takes place two years before the events.
Ah, Christmas... One of the most awaited holidays of the year, a celebration we hold five days before the new year with family. Each family (or country) has its own way of celebrating. And for the Leblouche family, Christmas meals are sacred—so much so that when you're invited, you can't refuse!
Traditionally, it's Mammone who handles the meal since she has superior culinary skills, but this year, she decided to pass the torch to Uncle Damianu and my father. Preparing the Christmas meal is very difficult in our family: it must be done as soon as you wake up, meaning first thing in the morning.
At Uncle Damianu's house, 9:00 AM.
"Listen to me, you two. This year, since you asked me, I'm putting you in charge of preparing the big Christmas meal. Don't even think about playing cards in the living room!" Mammone said firmly.
"Playing is a strategy, Mom. It builds up an appetite for dinner," my father said mockingly.
"A strategy, you say? Well, let's see how your 'strategy' works when you have to peel ten kilos of potatoes," Mammone scolded as she placed a list on the table.
"Alright, but what's with all these allergies? Why do we have a list that's ten kilometers long for cooking? Are we a family or a medical center?" Uncle Damianu wondered while reading through the list of restrictions and allergens.
"Because, Damianu, if we're not careful, this meal could turn into a national disaster! Julie is allergic to seafood, Alcide can't have gluten, and Félix... [sigh]... can't digest dairy products anymore."
"Oh, right, Félix's famous diet. I'm surprised he still eats bread," Uncle Damianu retorted sarcastically.
"And I warn you: if you forget anything, YOU will be the ones dealing with the crises," the septuagenarian warned, ignoring her son's comment.
"No problem, we'll throw everything into one dish and tell them it's 'fusion,'" my father joked with a wry smile.
"And you think that's going to work? Imagine Julie's face if she bites into a shrimp disguised as 'fusion.'"
"Alright, alright. We'll be careful. But what's the main dish, then?" my father asked, sighing.
"A stuffed turkey. But not just any turkey: a family recipe that I'm going to explain... in detail. I've got two turkeys in case you mess up the first one," Mammone said, pointing with her wooden spatula at the two raw turkeys on the countertop.
"With all these restrictions, it won't be a turkey, it'll be a rice cake with excuses," my uncle mumbled.
"Damianu, focus! Let's start with the stuffing. Chestnuts for tradition, celery for crunch... and not a gram of butter, because of Félix."
"Celery in the stuffing? Might as well serve them a rabbit dish," my father whispered to my uncle.
"No comments! Now, put on your aprons. And remember: if anything goes wrong, your name will be on everyone's lips... and not for the right reasons!" Mammone yelled, pointing at them with her spatula.
"Mammone, if we survive this, we deserve a medal," my uncle commented as he put on an apron that was a little too small.
"No, a statue. With 'The Christmas Meal Heroes' written on it," my father joked, an ironic smile on his lips.
"If you do it right, we'll talk about that later. But first, make sure you don't poison half the family," Mammone ordered. "I'm going to meet Félix at the market, I'll be back around... maybe 5 or 6 PM, if traffic doesn't delay us," she announced as she left the room.
YOU ARE READING
Leblouche's diary
General FictionBetween everyday life and adventure, between funny stories and serious stories, between life lessons and those of school, discover the childhood collections of a diary found by chance by a man in his thirties. A captivating journey through the pages...
