Ho ho holiday!

Hi everyone! As an early Christmas present, I have a guest post for you today.  As part of the Ho Ho Ho Holiday Swap I’ve got the lovely KLZ from Taming Insanity providing the entertainment.  If you haven’t met this delightful blogger, you should really go over and say hello. I like her just because she uses the word “dude” as much as I do! Also, wish her a big fat congratulations, Market Mommies is sending her  to Blissdom

Oh, and I should mention I’m talking about getting my buzz on while doing some holiday um, baking over at Mommy of  a Monster.  But don’t go yet…

Without further ado…the ever amusing KLZ:

Some things just scream holiday.

While other things scream family.

And sometimes families just scream on the holidays.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mother is not much of a cook. And neither am I. We have no patience for it. Which makes us less than stellar in the kitchen.

My father, however, is a great cook. As is my husband.

This often proves to be problematic as neither wants to cook when they get home from work. Understandable, certainly, but fight inducing for sure.

Which is why it was a nice change when my father started cooking our Christmas dinner. But if he was gonna do it, by damn, he was gonna do it his own way.

We don’t have turkey or ham or mashed potatoes.

We have ribs. And fried potatoes. And peas because they are my father’s favorite. He makes his own BBQ sauce.

This leads to a lot of swear words emanating from the kitchen.

Not that that surprises us. When we head out for our other Christmas tradition,cutting down our own Christmas tree, we are met with a cacophony of cusswords that lasts all day.

It sounds something like this: “What jackhole thinks we can use a crooked saw?”

“This potlicking ground is motherfraking wet! Son of a molehill!”

“Get out of the motherpucking way! I’m wielding a saw on everloving muddy ground!

Son of a motherloving popdrinking sporkholding bunsmoker!”

Um, I translated that very, very loosely.

I should mention here that my father tries very hard not to swear in front of us. He just isn’t ever successful. Which makes him cuss more.

He doesn’t like us to enter the kitchen while he cooks for two very insane reasons. First, he doesn’t want us to distract him even momentarily from the task at hand. In his eyes, the food is sacred and no harm must come to it. Second, he is convinced that if we step into the kitchen for even a moment while he is cooking, we will somehow manage to stab or impale ourselves on these things called “knives”. Hey, I didn’t get my paranoia from nowhere.

So when my father is cooking our tradition Christmas dinner of ribs and taters, we try to steer clear of the kitchen. Except that it takes him all everloving day to cook that food. And he’s cooking in the kitchen. Which is in the middle of our house. And, more importantly, is where the food is.

Eventually we have to go in there.

And we are met with an initial death glare for our distraction. Followed by a slow build of swearwords. Eventually, because all families have an evil streak in them, we begin to venture into the kitchen just to see who can make him swear the most.

We poke the bear and we wait. We wait until he turns purple and inappropriate words fly from his mouth. And then we run when the swearing reaches a fever pitch.

Or when mom finds out.

Seriously I’m going to have to find a way to use popdrinking sporkholding bunsmoker!

If you’d like to see the other bloggers participating in the post swap, here the linky:

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