Conquering the Holidays: Part III (The Student Becomes the Teacher)

Come and sit beside the fire, child, and let me tell you a story.



Once upon a time, there was a little girl who used to stay with her grandparents. "Here, drink this!" her grandfather would say."It's delicious!" So she would tip the glass back with both hands, and splutter as the juice from the bottom of a Vlasic dill pickle jar spilled down her throat. "What?" her grandfather would say as she peered, squinting and bewildered, into the bottom of the glass. "It's good! It puts hair on your chest!"

Before the child had a chance to explain that she didn't think she really wanted any hair on her chest, her grandmother would smack the old man away, chiding "Don't do that to the poor thing, viejito! Now come on, both of you, it's time for dinner! I've made nopales!" and the child's eyes would fill with bleak desperation.

But all was not as hopeless as it seemed. Some two decades later, she'd have the chance to pay it back.



(Jesus, look at that paleness! I need to get out more.)

Originally I was going to go easy on them. Cranberry sauce, perhaps. Much to my surprise, everyone in the house shouted "Don't be boring! Bring out the brussels sprouts!!!" Who was I to argue?

STAGE THREE: Brussels Sprouts with Prosciutto

The wine list recommended a sweet and spicy chardonnay to go with the brussels sprouts flavor. My dad suggested (not completely joking) we substitute a stiff shot of whiskey. I'd just removed the scotch from the cabinet when my grandpa waved it off and insisted that he didn't need a chaser. I refilled his full cup of coffee, just in case.



I've got to admit, this wasn't one of the more promising starts. I almost abandoned ship immediately and retreated to the cranberry soda. I really like cranberries, you know. Good for the digestive system and all that.



But sometimes you just have to stick with it, and you know what? You never know. It just might turn out better than you'd expected.



I learned two very important things tonight. First, I learned that my grandfather wasn't kidding when he said he liked the taste of pickle vinegar straight-up. Second, I learned that he's quite possibly insane. This is backed by the fact that he also honestly likes brussels sprouts, although he mitigated that the soda didn't actually taste anything like them. The good thing is that I can write to Jones Soda Inc. and tell them that I've found the one person on earth who actually enjoys their Sprout soda.

Of course, once he gave it the green light, my grandma wanted to get in on the action, if only to prove him wrong.



Now that I had two conflicting opinions, I was ready to try it out for myself. (Even though just the smell wafting through the living room made me feel faint.) Little did I know how truly terrifying it would be.



It really didn't get much better. I didn't actually hurl, but let's just say it was a viable option.



It's the prosciutto that really sticks. As I sit here, hours later--awash in water, milk, soda, Haribo sour gummy snacks, and cool mint Listerine--it's the taste of the salted ham that stays behind. I have a feeling it will be there in the morning too, like an old and loyal mortal enemy.* The ghost of every chunk of cactus I ever stored in my cheek and spat into my napkin has reared its ugly spectral head tonight and smote me across the tongue.

But you know what? I think it was still better than the turkey and gravy flavour.

Dear god, I can't wait for the dessert menu.

*-- 9AM, the next day: It's true. Oh god, it's true.