Spiked Coffee & Burnt Biscuits

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I drink most days from Thanksgiving week to Epiphany. It’s not a problem, I don’t think. I just believe in living liturgically, following the Church as she guides me through the year. Not that she endorses day-drinking really, but I just mean there are seasons, y’all. For every time. For every thing.

The rest of the year, I could take it or leave it. Really. Though, admittedly, I do sometimes take it. But it’s a necessity at Thanksgiving. I’ve got to make it through. And if a little Amaretto in my coffee can help me get there? I say Cheers, fam.

There was that one year I thought I might try going unassisted. Thankfully, I had a bottle of Lazzaroni’s in my suitcase. Old habits and all, when I was packing. Thank the Lord because I was just about to leave The Peach Room when it all started.

“GET OFF THE ROOF!”

Aunt Eleanor’s voice boomed through the house before I’d even had my coffee. Honest to Pete—I hung a U-turn and splashed a little something in my mug. Then I made a beeline to the kitchen, passing a pile of slugs with glowing faces on every soft surface in the den. They rolled their eyes as a matter of protocol, even though I know I didn’t say anything stupid.

“Who’s on the roof?”

“Your Uncle Doobie. He wants to put the new LED lights up today. I told him to wait until Harley gets here tonight to help.”

My cousin’s husband rolled his luggage through the kitchen like he was evacuating for a hurricane. She followed behind him. “We talked about this. We’re NOT leaving until Sunday.”

“I was just getting a head start on packing.”

“It’s FRIDAY morning,” she whisper-yelled.
Then she turned to me, “Morning, Grace Anne.”

“Yep,” I mumbled, eyeing the path of least resistance to Mr. Coffee.

The younger cousins tumbled in through the side door, with their 4 AM doorbuster bags filled to the brim under their arms. One of them tripped over Meredith, who was half in/half out of the pantry looking for the good honey, and almost dropped a flat-screen.

“Watch where you’re going! Where’ve y’all been, anyway? Does anybody even do Black Friday shopping anymore?” she side-eyed her cousins. “You smell like vodka.”

“You can’t smell vodka,” one purred and blowing her cousin a kiss.

Someone poked one of the slugs.

“Stop touching me!”
“Shut up.”
“I’m telling Nana you’re shaking the gifts.”

Then. Boom. Crash.
Everyone ran to the window. The ladder had fallen. Uncle Doobie’s legs were swinging from the eave.

“Oh, my g-”

Then the alarm. Wah wah wah!

The slugs covered their ears. All the cousins ran to the kitchen. There stood Aunt Eleanor with a pan of blackened biscuits, smoke billowing out of the oven.
Never.
Ever.
In the history of this family’s biscuit-making, had Aunt Eleanor Bea EVER burned a biscuit.
Ever.

No one moved. No one said a word.

This, I thought, wrapping my hands around my mug, is exactly why I spike my coffee.
Not my circus; not my inflatable yard decorations.

“DAMMIT DOOBIE, THIS IS YOUR FAULT! Get down from there!”

Whoa. Burnt biscuits AND Aunt Eleanor just cursed?

“I’ll go open the front door to air things out.” I stepped outside and looked up at Uncle Doobie sipping his coffee—gazing out toward the sunrise.

“Uncle Doobie? Hold on a minute, I’ll grab the ladder.”

“No thanks, Grace. I like the peace up here.” He raised his coffee mug to me.
I suspect he had a little additive of his own.

So listen, y’all, what I’m saying is that for the next six weeks I might be super chill. Or happy. Or unbothered. I suggest rolling with it and not asking any questions.
It’ll be fun.
We’ll all have fun.
And the holidays will be better for it.
Cheers, fam.