Home for the holidays always feels bittersweet, like stepping into a sitcom you love but you’d never audition for. There’s the warm chaos of mismatched decorations, the faint buzz of a football game no one’s actually watching, and then there’s Uncle Jed. Every family has a Jed.
Ours just happens to have a taste for bourbon and the political subtlety of a bullhorn. Dinner starts out innocent enough. Plates are passed, kids argue over who gets the biggest slice of ham, and someone inevitably complains that the stuffing tastes like wallpaper.
Then Jed clears his throat, the kind of ominous sound that makes you wish you were anywhere else — like a dentist’s chair or a jury box. “So,” he begins, swirling his drink with the self-importance of a man holding court. “Let’s talk about what’s really wrong with this country.
” Time doesn’t just stop; it hides under the table with the dog, waiting for the fallout. Mom gives me a look that says, Why didn’t you stop him? as though I, a mere mortal, could prevent Jed from being Jed. Dad sighs into his mashed potatoes.
Cousin Becky instinctively reaches for the wine. Then, like a miracle from the culinary heavens, someone brings out the Nochebuena salad. Its arrival is a party of oranges, apples, pineapple, and pecans, all glistening under a tangy-sweet citrus dressing.
It’s a dish so colorful it could make a Crayola box blush. “Try it before it wilts,” I say, and suddenly everyone has a new mission: fill thei.
