Inviting Aunt Pauline to Thanksgiving was my father’s idea. The last time I’d seen her, she’d stolen the microphone at my cousin’s bar mitzvah and sang karaoke Mariah Carey on the bimah before the Torah portion.
When Pauline arrived for dinner, she brought Jell-O salad and called it a “dessert-etizer.” The evening started amiably enough with sparkling cider, but no one counted on Pauline’s whiskey flask hidden in her garter.
While I tried to slice the salad jiggling inside green gelatin, Aunt Pauline started dancing ‘The Mashed Potato’ and filling her bra with cranberry muffins.
Nobody felt like eating the turkey.