Ok, Christmas with the in-laws! Score.

I don't know if this qualifies or not.

December 2001

The kitchen at the shelter is well-equipped.

This church will feed thousands of hungry people over the next few days. Many potatoes to peel, many turkeys to prep, many vegetables to wash.

Outside, it's raining. Food's being loaded into the steam trays, servers line up, aprons tied, caps on. You don't want hair in the cranberry sauce.

Backstage, I'm wedging russets, fast. There's a tingle, numbness, and the Henckel slips and slices through the tendon of my right thumb. I stand there, amazed, blood pooling. I'm sent home.

Multiple sclerosis, unsuspected, has taken me out of the holiday charity loop.

Honey, if that ain't holiday hell, I sure don't know what is.

You don't want hair in the cranberry sauce.

Heh. That made me smirk, though.

It didn't feel like hell, though - I loved cooking there. And the MS could have tingled any time of year. It wasn't diagnosed for another seven months after that.

I just - no strong connotations to the holidays, either side of. That's why it feels a bit like fraud, writing about it.

OK, this is way, way too long, but it's the only holiday hell scene I can think of from any of my novels, and I can't think how to shorten it and still get the meaning across:

24 December 1811

James looks harried. “Sorry to make you such a poor welcome, but Lucy is in labor.”

She embraces her brother and opens her mouth to inquire after Lucy’s progress. But James pushes her to arm’s length and touches her abdomen. “This is unexpected, but we have room at the inn.”

Footsteps hurrying downstairs, and then framed in the doorway is the last person she wants to see. Why is her mother-in-law here?

“Oh, Anna, my dear child! I heard you were come!” Lady Windham’s eyes widen. “Oh, Anna! A baby? This is beyond wonderful!”

Her knees wobble and her vision blurs, but she refuses to faint. She’s been through worse than this.

James’s arm tightens, upholding her. “Lady Windham, will you go and see how Lucy does?” he asks.

When she is gone, he steers her to a chair. “So. It’s not Sebastian’s, is it?”

She meets his eyes and is relieved to find no judgment there. “No.”

Good stuff from everyone! What a great group. I'm very happy to have found this.

Oh, Susan. I can't wait 'til your books are published. Also? Insent from my gmail address. If you don't get it, please let me know.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. There are so many Christmases to think of when reading this that it was hard to pick just one. My brother drank paint thinner one Christmas and woke up with his eyes sealed shut. This was upsetting for me but probably more Mom’s holiday hell memory since her memory would actually include fixing it. A few years later, we all got a virus. That evening turned out okay, though, once the medicine worked, but the day blew.

Divorce brings its own holiday hell, as parents are sad and guilty. One side cries the other tries to buy affection, and the stepparents get upset that I don’t love them yet.My love can be hard to win, but it’s not made in Taiwan.That shit is built to last.(Not that I would say it like that, till I’m what, eighteen. Cursing makes me blush throughout my teens.) Then I’m in college, poverty Christmases. One year I get no rides to even shop, show up empty-handed, the lowest moment of my life not actually involving death or desertion. I...um, lose my block about cursing
.This is when my dad stopped talking to me, for not being a more fun suicide. Maybe I should have filked it to fa-la-las.(But I don’t even know this until this year, after asking point blank.See, I do use those journalism skills.) To Be Continued...

When the kids were little my parents used to come to our place for Christmas morning, where cookies, fruitcake, coffee and eggnog were served as "breakfast." My parents were teetotal, so we never spiked the eggnog. Homemade, with eggs, not the bought kind out of a carton. A tradition, including the special red, green, and gold pitcher not used for anything else all year. Even the cats got some, as a Christmas treat.

Then there was the Christmas everyone got deathly ill. The clue was that the cats were puking and squirting too. "'Tis the year for salmonella, falalalala, lalalala..."

Forgive me for laughing, Bev.