Having asked for a pencil and paper the night before, I was able to hand over my shopping list the next morning. The lengthy list of ingredients and tools provoked another raised eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything until he got to the part where I’d drawn another line across the page and written down another, smaller list of more items.
“Duck…port…dark cherries?” he inquired. “That doesn’t sound like any tamale I’ve ever had.”
“It’s not for that,” I replied. “It’s for Christmas Eve. I don’t have to make it, though — maybe I should have asked if you had plans with Damon or something.”
“Damon?” he repeated, and shook his head. “Hardly. Damon’s not exactly the holiday spirit type. Anyway, he doesn’t recognize Christmas as a holiday. He just does the potluck because it’s a family tradition.
