Here's a short story in the style of Stuart McLean’s Vinyl Cafe stories, featuring Dave, Morley, and their annual reluctant plunge into hosting Christmas: his Dave cooks the Turkey is an annual reading in our house. I hope you like this
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“Dave Hosts Christmas (Again)”
A Vinyl Cafe-style story
It was December in the neighbourhood, and that meant a few things.
It meant the old man across the street had once again mounted a plastic Santa on his roof without any obvious method of anchoring it, which meant it would fly off sometime between now and New Year’s. It meant the mailman had switched to a red scarf and a dangerous twinkle. And it meant, most of all, that Dave and Morley were once again preparing to host the Annual Family Christmas.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they had the biggest house.
“It’s not even that big,” Dave grumbled, standing in the living room with a measuring tape and a wounded expression. “The only reason we have the most space is because I didn’t tear down the wall to make an open-concept kitchen like everyone else. And for that, we get thirty-five people and two folding tables?”
Morley, bless her, had stopped listening after the word "wall."
Christmas, you see, did not bring out the best in Dave. He was not what you'd call a festive soul.
Morley, on the other hand, was twinkly and soft around the edges. The type who decants eggnog into a punch bowl and says things like, “Oh, it’s the spirit of the season, Dave,” while Dave mutters things about the spirits disappearing from his liquor cabinet.
Which they did. Every year. Like clockwork.
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The preparation began, as it always did, with the boxes.
Morley would go into the basement to retrieve the boxes of decorations, and Dave would follow her like a reluctant archaeologist uncovering a tomb he had no intention of opening.
One year, a mouse had gotten into the fake snow and made what could only be described as a "holiday nest." Another year, Dave threw out what he thought was a tangled mess of tinsel and lights but was actually Morley's grandmother’s antique angel hair garland. There were repercussions.
This year, things went wrong even earlier than usual.
While hauling up a box labelled “TREE LIGHTS (DO NOT TANGLE!!!)” Dave tripped over the cat and knocked over Morley’s ceramic nativity scene.
Mary lost a head.
The donkey lost a leg.
And the baby Jesus ended up lodged inside Dave’s slipper.
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By the time Christmas Eve arrived, Dave had polished the good glassware (and by “polished” we mean run under warm water and dried with the T-shirt he was wearing), rearranged furniture, and stocked the liquor cabinet, a task he approached with all the solemnity of preparing for siege warfare.
“Do not touch the Lagavulin,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s hidden behind the oatmeal.”
Of course, it was the first bottle gone.
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The family began to arrive.
There was Uncle Reg, who always brought the same thing: a tin of expired smoked oysters and a story about being "nearly deported" in 1978.
There was Cousin Lynn and her gluten-free stuffing no one touched, and Morley’s sister with the purse dog that barked at tinsel.
As usual, no one brought liquor.
But somehow, Dave's bar was bone-dry by 8:00 p.m.
The same jokes were told. The same stories rehashed. Someone (probably Uncle Reg) would invariably ask Dave if he “still sold records out of a van.” Dave would smile, politely, like a man being slowly buried in snow.
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Then the turkey caught fire.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no explosion. Just enough flame to set off the smoke alarm and sear the side of Dave’s hand.
He stood in the kitchen, looking at the charred remains, holding a spatula like a man considering new paths in life.
“We could serve pizza,” Morley offered gently.
“Or move,” said Dave.
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But here’s the thing.
Later that night, after the pizza boxes were stacked high and the last cousin had finally left with a Tupperware full of regret, Dave stood in the quiet living room. He looked at the crooked tree. He saw the crumpled paper, the dented angel, and the half-eaten plate of gingerbread someone had left behind.
And for a moment—just a moment—he smiled.
Because somehow, despite the chaos and the flaming poultry and the looted liquor cabinet… it had been nice.
Not perfect.
Not even particularly good.
But warm.
And full.
And theirs.
Morley came in with two mugs of peppermint tea.
“You survived,” she said.
Dave took the mug. He didn’t answer right away.
Then he nodded.
“Only three hundred and sixty-five days until we do it again,” he said.
