‘What are you two up to for Christmas?’ I asked Camp. ‘Is there going to be turkey and jingle bells? Is Sophie coming home?’

‘Sophie isn’t coming to the coast from Montreal. Too much stress and too expensive to travel at this time of year.’

 ‘I could ask Clare if she would like to get together, maybe cook a bird and have a few drinks and laughs.’

            ‘Let me tell you a little Christmas story that happened many moons ago,’ Camp said. ‘It still makes me cringe and is one of the reasons I don’t really subscribe to turkey and all the hoopla. It was a time when I was friends with Cassandra. Before your time buddy.’

            ‘Now I’m intrigued. I thought you’re the consummate bachelor before you met Muriel.’

            ‘I was not a monk.’

‘Would you like to host this year’s Christmas dinner at your place?’  Cassandra’s mom asked us, looking at me. ‘It would be so much more convenient for everybody and it would be a neutral place.’

            ‘Neutral?’

            ‘Well, yes. Sandy, Cassandra’s sister, doesn’t want to have Chuck’s parents over. The mother just rides her ragged and the father drinks and gets obnoxious.’

            Really. Sounds like pleasant company and why would I want to have those people over for Christmas dinner? Doesn’t sound like fun, more like a ritual sacrifice. I didn’t say that aloud. Instead I suggested: ‘Why don’t we all just go to the pub. That’s pretty neutral.’

            Cassandra’s mom shook her head. ‘You know it would be such a favour and everyone would pitch in and help you cook the turkey and prepare the dinner.’

            Cassandra looked at her mom skeptically, craning her neck skywards and slowly rubbing it, a pose she assumed when she worked out a problem. ‘You know mom, this isn’t going to go over very easy. Some major convincing needs to happen. Nothing short of flattery and bribery.’

            I held my tongue and sipped the expensive wine her mom had brought over but not without a certain degree of anticipation. There would be a price to pay.  

            ‘You’re such a good cook and pleasant host and you’re so good at it. It wouldn’t even be a big event. Just like a fun party.’

            ‘Dinner for ten?’ I said.  Six of whom I don’t know or even like. Some party. ‘More wine please.’

            ‘Honey…’ My ears perked up, my sphincter clenched and I basically tensed up. Whenever Cassandra used that term of endearment, I knew I was being trapped and coerced. ‘Honey, do it for me and the family.’

            How could I say no. I’m such a jovial host, such an outstanding cook and such a sucker for manipulative females. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

            ‘You’re such a good sport,’ the mom said. ‘Pass me the rest of that wine will you.’ 

Since I was in charge of cooking the turkey, Cassandra volunteered to make her favorite desert, Pavlova, a recipe from her days in New Zealand. The secret was to let the merengue cool in the oven over night and I was forbidden – on the penalty of instant death – to open the oven door. I had only turkey on my mind and when I got up on Christmas morning, the first thing I did was preheat the oven and then went to have a shower.

            I was not prepared for the blood curdling scream that came from the kitchen. I almost choked on my toothbrush but at the very instant the penny dropped and I rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to undo the damage. But it was too late. I’ve never seen Cassandra in such a state of agitation, she was visibly trembling with anger and disappointment, all directed at me. ‘How could you, after I told you over and over not to open the oven.’

            ‘I didn’t open it,” I stammered, I just eh…wanted to pre-heat.’

            ‘You’ve ruined the merengue. Look! It’s collapsed and there is a big crack.’

             ‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with plenty of whipped cream, nobody will notice, believe me.’

            Cassandra gave me a killer stare but eventually settled down to a seething agitated state and carried her precious, damaged Pavlova away from me, the vicious dessert killer.  

            The turkey was in the oven, doing what it was supposed to and the jams, Brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes were on the stove and Cassandra was once again fussing with the Christmas tree which I bought from the scouts for twenty bucks. The table was set with festive napkins, candles and party gags, the doorways festooned with cedar and holly branches, Christmas music in the background, cracking logs in the fire place and the succulent aromas from the kitchen wafting through the house. The guests arrived and behaved predictably. Chuck lamented the weather and the state of the world; Sandy’s dark dress was inappropriate and Chuck’s dad had obviously started to celebrate early and was well into his cups. Cassandra’s mom beamed and was enjoying the banter. Even the injured Pavlova looked perfect, decorated with loads of whipped cream, kiwis and strawberries. 

‘Wow Camp,’ I had no idea. ‘We don’t have to do a turkey or a pavlova. How about a Swiss fondue and pineapple with tequila for dessert?’

‘Will there be beer? ‘