Food fight

"Oh, it's good that you called," Mom says. "I've been thinking about Christmas dinner."

I know what this means.

On Dec. 22, eight delightful people — myself included — will descend upon my parents' house in the hills of New Hampshire. In my mind, 10 of us will then embark on a full week of calm merriment in fire-lit, smoke-screened amber tones. I feel the warmth of the fire, a blustery gust as someone briefly opens the mudroom door to bring in a heap of firewood. I note the plush carpet beneath my pillow-propped body, my eyes growing tired as I force myself to finish a for-enjoyment-only book. I'm thirsty, and suddenly there's wine. Someone mentions turkey and I can ... not smell it.

"We were thinking maybe we should get Christmas dinner catered privately for the 10 of us at the Hanover Inn," Mom says.

Mom knows me well. As she speaks these words, the tone of her voice communicates, "You, finicky daughter, are about to reject this idea." She is wise. I object.

I love food. For my 12th Christmas, my parents, my brother, Jon, and I visited my grandparents, who had retired to Texas. Grandma made cornbread stuffing instead of white bread stuffing, and, as cornbread, in my opinion, does not make a suitable stuffing base, my habit of consuming three stuffing servings was thwarted. I've scarcely recovered.

For some Christmas dinner between the ages of 6 and 8 (trauma bars me from remembering properly), Mom casually slipped orange zest in the cranberry sauce. It was innocent enough; culinary sources as authoritative as Joy of Cooking allow for this variation. But my brother and I took one bite and no more, and we won't shut up about it to this day.

And there was the Christmas when I was a teenager when Dad proposed that we "scale back the meal" — make enough food for, say, half an army instead of an entire army. This seemed reasonable, until someone mentioned nixing the green bean casserole: unreasonable. The menu did not shrink. In fact, I believe I insisted we add a dish.

"I just want to be sure that we all have plenty of time to visit, that there isn't too much work to do in the kitchen," Mom explains.

"Yes, I understand that," I say, remaining calm. "But, you know, it's just, all those smells wafting through the house ... and, you know, the cooking makes the socializing fun!"

Though I'm not necessarily the most impressive multi-tasker in the kitchen, I enjoy the shared challenge of getting the meal in order. I like almost forgetting the bread in the oven, grabbing it out in the nick of time, failing to wear an oven mitt while doing so. I like fretting about the turkey's doneness. I like last-minute trips to the Foodstop for sage. Will the Foodstop even carry sage? It's the near-disaster I love. And the smells.

But it's the nurturing, too. For me, the holidays mark the one time of the year we still have for extended families and guests to cook and eat together. It's a lost ritual, families preparing feasts and sitting down together, yet it's a practice I love.

Elaborate meals let me imagine a time when gathering and preparing food was the work of a family's life. I like sitting down to the dinner table exhausted, ready to eat and drink, slowly, for five hours. It's the work I like. I'd pluck the turkey's feathers if I had the option.

If I'm to be under the same roof as Aunt Deb and Uncle Peter, cousins Alex and Emma, Jon, our significant others — all of these people I rarely get to speak to in the same breath — I'll be damned if we're not going to prepare Christmas dinner together. I'll be damned if we're not going to blow up the kitchen together.

"I'll cook the entire meal!" I blurt out, losing my mind.

"I know, but I won't let you," Mom says. She doesn't have to say this. I know her well, too.

"Well, I just wanted to take your temperature on it," she says. "Think about it."

I'm already planning for the next round of talks: A fine establishment like the Hanover Inn might not stoop to the level of green bean casserole, a very important Christmas dinner component. Almost as important as a lengthy conversation about green bean casserole. It wouldn't be Christmas without it.