Fondue and my sister Mary … a combination both annual and epic.  Mary would invite the neighborhood to her Christmas Eve party, leaving the guests with a sense they should have left left before the damn, or water, was breaking.

Christmas Eve, for me, was the best of holidays, with the exception of Thanksgiving.  My brothers and I would show up to Mary’s catered event, with first class service from Sister Mary,  knowing we would eat and drink well.  We were never disappointed.

We also knew when to properly leave.  My brothers, Tom, Greg and I could smell the fondue turn when it was time to leave.  It must have been limburger cheese.  The event began with Mary welcoming you into her abode with deviled eggs and a beer before you crossed her porch rug reading, “Proceed with caution.”  The devil?  Eggs?  Beer?  What could go wrong?

It only took us, Mary’s  brothers, two hours to consume the appetizers, beer, and atmosphere.  All of which were terrific.  The younger generation would follow without extreme caution.  We knew better when it was time to leave.

Much like limburger cheese, Greg, Tom and I could smell that fondue melting.  Chairs were tipped over, plates were falling on the floor or being flung across rooms.  I don’t know what it’s like to be cremated, but my brothers and I witnessed Mary’s first layer of skin drooping from her once jovial face.  Now, it was transforming to a grimace.  Sorry, Mary, but we must get going.  “Good! You better leave before I have to kick these other assholes out of my house.  I’m ready to take a flame thrower to this place!”

We’d exit peacefully and look forward to her annual call the next day explaining why the devil wore an ugly sweater that night.  We didn’t care.  We loved it, and we loved her.

Mary Christmas.