Dinner at the Crub

For the first time in six years, B and I spent the holidays with his family in Florida instead of with my family in the Midwest. The benefits of this are numerous, not the least of which is: Christmas Dinner at the Club. B groaned and dragged his feet, dreading the unpalatable meal we would undoubtedly have, rushed by the unexplainable impatience of the elderly. But not me. I enjoyed every minute of the experience.

The last time we dined chez the Crub, you see, was Easter of 2007. The tables were decorated with pastel napkins, there was an ice bunny sculpture and, get this: a full Dixieland band. I wanted so badly to get up and dance (no one else was) but was cautioned against it in the name of humiliating B’s parents. Poor B passed the meal in an exceedingly hung-over state, begrudgingly ingesting one tiny bite of food every 10 minutes or so.

The Christmas experience was only slightly less entertaining than the Easter Extravaganza, due to the distinct absence of live music. But yet there was the requisite ice sculpture, the guy carving meat and making corny jokes, and loads of old ladies wearing sparkly vests and men sporting their holiday ties. I unabashedly loaded my plate with shrimp and crab salad and drank a split of Korbel before moving on to the dessert table for apple crumble and vanilla ice cream. It was glorious.

As if we had languished over our buffet-style meal (we had not), the room was nearly empty by the time we left. I was still finishing my wine when B’s father announced he would pull the car around (meaning, he would hand his keys to the valet) so I barely had time to avail myself of the free tampons and mouthwash in the ladies’ room before darting out to the running car to be whisked back to... nothing really. Door-to-door I’d say we were gone from the house for an hour and a half.

Sure beats being stranded in the Chicago airport for 11 hours listening to inane cell phone conversations and watching our delayed departure inch later and later.