Where Traditions Go to Die

I wouldn't call my Christmas dinner a complete fiasco. I mean, people ate, drank and, with the exception of one son who thought he could eat a bowl of M&Ms for dinner, were merry.

But it wasn't the Norman Rockwellian picture I'd painted in my mind.

It came down to drunken carrots and deviled eggs. They sure sound like a pair made for each other, don't they? Drunk veggies and evil protein. The nectar of Lex Luther and his kin, most likely.

I'd worried for a week, unable to find my mother's recipe for brandied carrots, or what we'd called, drunken carrots -- carrots cooked with brown sugar, brandy and butter. My mother made them for every holiday meal I can remember. And my cousin, Eric, who was joining us for the very first time since my Mother died, always raved about them.

He didn't just say he liked them; he talked up these alcohol-soaked carotene-rich root veggies so much, I wondered if I was making a mistake by hating them.

But he had a rare Christmas day off from policing the mean streets of the big city, and he and his wife of only a year were coming to our home to celebrate the holiday. I had to make the carrots.

I found a recipe online that sounded a lot like what I remember my Mother following, so off to the liquor store we went to buy brandy. Wine and whiskey we have. Brandy, not so much.

Then as we all stood around, not eating the buffet of too-many appetizers for just 10 people, Eric confessed he never liked those carrots. He was just being polite all those years. I'd been hoodwinked.

Back to the appetizer table. No one was eating the deviled eggs I'd painstakingly prepared. I'd polish silver for four hours before having to peel a dozen hard-boiled eggs. Deviled eggs flew off the table at my Mother's dinners. Turns out, no one really likes those either.

Next year, Kevin & I will cook the dinner we want. I'm glad the truth came to light. Some traditions are just meant to die. R.I.P.