CULINARY SELF-DEFENSE

One more day and our new in-laws will descend on our modest home. Linda’s son is getting married.

I get the sense that these are not our kind of people. They live in a 7,000 square foot house, fronting on a huge lawn and backing up on a scenic lake. We front onto utility poles and back up to a drainage canal.

They demanded that their daughter have a $2,500 wedding band, while Linda and I bought ours at a discount jeweler. Geoffrey is still suspect because he sells carpet, while the bride’s brother is a physician. Their idea of a good time is golf and tennis, while ours is eating, sitting around the table and gossiping.

Fortunately, I have my own means of escape: the kitchen. Someone whispered in their ear that I am a gourmand. The claim is dubious, but I will try to keep up the ruse until they return to Valhalla. Without a tennis court in sight, I will ply them on smoked turkey with pecan dressing, home-cured gravlax with dill sauce, glazed apples and sultanas, bourbon-soused chicken and the like.

I have no doubt that my family will be well sated, perhaps even to the point of loosening belts and unbuttoning at the waist. As for the in-laws, I see them all picking at the same turkey wing, politely departing the table and attempting a brisk walk down Main Street, which will be abandoned, as all the stores will be locked up for Christmas weekend.

Deprived of exercise, they will return to their hotel room, where the only show on television will be the Vienna Boys Choir chirping “Stille Nacht.” They will then sheepishly return to our home, where they will catch us gossiping . . . about them.

But, I have an image of saving the day, because they will have arrived just in time for a round of perfect Stolichnaya martinis. The room becomes hazy. Tongues become loosened. Finally, the mother of the bride falls into a bowl of chocolate mousse.

Stille Nacht. Heil'ge Nacht. Somehow, I don’t think that mother will be playing too much tennis tomorrow.