Dad’s strange love making – 01

Hi guys, today I’m here with a story called dad’s strange love making, which comes in 2 parts. Read both parts to get full excitement.

I’m going to scream if one more person asks me if I’m alright.

Charlotte was exhausted, and a little fed up. She’d always come home for the holidays, alternating Thanksgiving and Christmas with Liam’s family. For most of her adult life, it had been a much needed break from the business of being a mother, a wife, and a businesswoman.

With her mother’s passing, she was afraid things would be different this Christmas, but she wasn’t ready to be forced into the hostess role at Dad’s. Sure, he took care of cooking the standing rib roast, and made the mashed potatoes: his special potatoes, creamy, rich, buttery, and probably heart clogging. She’d have to put in another 5 miles just because of those potatoes.

If it had just been them, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but Aunt Nora and her brood had to show up, with her two cousins, both still living at home in their mid-twenties. They were as useless as tits on a bull.

They’d all stayed up late, socializing after the better part of a year apart. Drank a little too much eggnog. Getting up at the crack of dawn to fill the stockings and put out the ‘Santa’ presents for Mia’s sixth Christmas was the highest priority, but the lack of sleep combined with the long drive, was making her irritable.

Add the responsibility of pulling the traditional meal together along with all the other things going on in her life, and she’d become downright snippy.

She turned to her father, who was checking the temperature on the roast. “Did we have to invite Aunt Nora?” she mumbled, for his ears only.

“They’re family, baby girl. You know her husband’s in Shanghai, they would have been alone.”

“You’d think they could do something to help around here.”

Her Dad shrugged. “We wouldn’t be very good hosts now if we asked them to work.”

“I know, but you think they’d volunteer, wouldn’t you?”

He gave her a grin. “Before we judge, let’s give ’em a chance to do the right thing.”

Charlotte knew that was a waste of time. They’d always been selfish, and today was no exception. Instead of helping, her two younger cousins were monopolizing Mia’s time, playing with her under the tree. At least someone was having a good time. She glanced over through the dining room into the formal living room, where the 12 foot tree towered, and a field of presents for a precocious 5 year old stretched as far as the eye could see.

Charlotte turned back to the stove, checking her list, trying to time all the dishes properly. At least Aunt Nora had set the table, and baked the pies the night before. The incessant grinding of the homemade ice cream maker groaned on and on, one more irritant she could have done without.

But the homemade butter pecan ice cream was another tradition. She’d always loved them growing up, but was starting to think she could do without a few. Did it always have to be butter pecan? And why the sweet potatoes? The whole bit about sitting around as a family watching the same old happily-ever-after Christmas movies every year. Was she the only one bored with the banality, the sameness?

She felt the familiar hands on her shoulders, sliding inward to massage her neck. She almost brushed them away, but knew that would have been noticed. She didn’t need him pouting, or Dad questioning.

“You alright, Jess? Anything I can do?” her husband’s voice sounded beside her ear.

“I think we’ve got it. We’ll be ready to eat in less than 20 minutes. You might want to start winding Mia down.”

Liam walked over to the oven, peeking in at the roast which was just about to come out. “You always put on the best spread, Dad,” he said.

“Once a year. It doesn’t seem like a time for holding back.” Her father opened the oven door, and pulled out the gorgeous roast, the bared end of eight rib bones exposed. That was their signal. Fifteen minutes to go.

Charlotte cleared the front left burner, and set out the pan for her father, turning on the flame underneath. He lifted the roast by the rack and set it on the counter to settle, before pouring half the drippings into a pan. Jess couldn’t help but smile. So predictable. He always made a dark gravy to go with the drippings.

She slid past him, bumping his butt with hers, to make room for her to pass, and stuck the two trays of biscuits into the vacated oven rack. She ducked under his arms in the kitchen dance, returning to her side dishes, while he plucked the sweet potatoes off the bottom rack, before closing the oven door.

It was moments like this when her mother’s absence hit her hardest. Playing in the kitchen, remembering all she’d been taught by her Mom, watching the interplay that her parents had displayed all her life. She recalled how they’d included her over the years, making her responsible for hand-mashing the potatoes, setting out the biscuits, ordering all the cooking materials on the center island.

Over the years her mother had bequeathed more and more of her tasks to her daughter, while she retained the secondary duties, washing up as they went, acting as timekeeper, setting the table, preparing the iced tea, getting the coffee maker ready. All the background tasks, while allowing her father and her to pull the complex meal together.

She looked over at the growing pile of dishes, and her irritation returned. You would think somebody could help. Her father bumped her hips with his, and glanced at the clock. She bumped him back, then did a little pirouette around him before peeking in on the rolls. “Looks good.”

“Your call,” her father said.

The words made her choke up a bit. It was the first holiday without her mother, and it was always Mom’s call. “Two more minutes,” she said. Her voice quivered.

Her father slid his beefy arm over her shoulder, the side of his head touching hers. “Me too, honey. I miss her too. She loved Christmas dinner.”

He could always do that. He always knew what she was thinking. Charlotte had been Daddy’s girl, but the connection was stronger than almost anyone she knew. Maybe because she was an only child. Unlike a lot of fathers, he’d always been there growing up. She remembered he’d only missed one basketball game in her entire high-school career.

He’d been devastated, calling from the airport, wishing her luck. She’d hit the game winning shot, perhaps her best game ever. She recalled hearing the TV around midnight, and found her father perched in front of it, his chair pulled up close, watching the video her mother had taken.

“It’s not the same, Dad,” she said, lifting the pots off the burners, draining them, and filling the good china servers one at a time.

He continued stirring the gravy, adjusting the consistency by eye. “I know, Pumpkin.” He turned to her, and ran his fingers through her long hair. “It may never be the same, but what are you going to do, give up? We keep going, baby girl. We adapt, we do our best, and we keep going.”

Liam entered the kitchen, standing out of the way. Seven years of training had taught him his role. Charlotte pushed the completed items his way, and he started relaying them to the table. It was automatic, the result of years of familiarity

Charlotte watched him out of habit, to make sure everything went in the right place. The huge pecan wood dining table had been part of their lives as long as Charlotte could remember. Two of the three leaves were added, and it was set for seven. Her place was on her father’s left, as it always had been, Mia beside her, between her and Liam. Aunt Nora was opposite her, on her father’s right, her sons beside her. With Mom gone, it wasn’t right.

She watched her husband, as predictable as her father. He put the dishes in their places, then walked past each setting to make sure everything was as it should be.

Charlotte pulled on her heat proof gloves, and peeled the foil back off the sweet potatoes. She slit them open, and slathered each with a chunk of butter. The beeping of the oven timer alerted her and she dashed over to the oven, pulling out the rolls, checking the bottoms. Perfect.

She put the hot brick in the bottom of the roll basket, set the cloth on top of it, and loaded it up with the steaming rolls, before tucking the four corners back over the top to keep them hot and moist.

“Go time,” she announced. It was her call now.

Her father gave her a grin, lifted the roast off the rack, and placed it on the largest serving platter. She leaned around him, adding the sprigs of parsley, and a little fresh rosemary, like her mother always had.

Liam stood waiting, their daughter at his side. That was new. Mia looked excited. “The gravy?” he asked.

She nodded, and placed the prepped sweet potatoes on their serving plate while her husband filled the gravy boat. Her father already had the roast drippings in a second one.

Liam took the basket of rolls and put it in their daughter’s hands. He was whispering to her, and she nodded. Charlotte watched him kiss Mia’s forehead, and she had another of those pangs of pain, the doubt resurfacing. She pushed it away, for at least one more day.

She wouldn’t spoil Christmas. She owed them that much.

Liam led the march, walking into the dining room, and setting the gravy boats about a third of the way down the table. Mia carried the antique basket, her grin bathing the room in her joy. Her father pulled out his chair, and lifted her to stand on the seat. He held her by the waist while she leaned over the table to place the rolls in the opening left for them.

Aunt Nora, and cousins Jeff and Rick all told her what a wonderful job she’d done with the rolls, as her father lifted her over to her chair, seating her before handing her a napkin.

Charlotte carried in the second largest platter, the heaping mound of mashed potatoes in the middle, the foil wrapped sweet potatoes decoratively positioned around the perimeter. Liam pulled her chair out, while she sat. “Perfect as always, Jess,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Same as always.

Dad’s strange love making – 01 will continue in the next page.