So this year we bought our free-range turkey from the incomparable Fish King, the God Emporer of fish markets in Glendale and Mecca for gourmets and gluttons alike.  It’s handier because I can get the shrimp for appetizers at the same time and because they charge about a quarter as much as the chain Katrina refers to as Whole Paycheck.

Katrina’s feeling ill and looking pale to the point of Gothy, so I dress the kids and decide to get to Fish King "early" to avoid the holiday crowd.  8:15 turns out not to be actually "early," as we shall see.  As we get in the car I promise Evan and Abby a treat afterwards if they are good.  An overpriced mediocre pastry from Starbucks or something.

"What about Baskin Robbins?" asks Evan.

"No.  Not for breakfast."  I say.

"Why not?" asks Evan.  "Yeah!"  says Abby.

"Well, because ice cream isn’t for breakfast.  That’s not when you eat it, unless your are single and can do whatever you want, or your wife is out of town with the kids and you have a hangover and need to raise your blood sugar to get the locomotive-roaring sound out of your ears.  That’s just the way it is.  Donuts JUST ARE for breakfast and ice cream JUST ISN’T.  It’s one of those cultural norms, like a decorated tree being a Christmas tree and not a Holiday tree, that will send certain people right over the edge into a coniption fit if you don’t respect it.  And a lot of growing up is going to be about learning these norms, coming to terms with them, and deciding whether you will obey them in public or become one of those people who wear tie-dye at 50 and write letters to the editor and get seen on cable access a lot and cause trouble at the meetings of the organic grocery collective committee."

This is exactly the sort of comment that can make the kids quiet for a while in a partly-respectful, partly-scared manner that all the shouting and bribery in the world can’t, so the trip to Fish King goes swimmingly.

We get there and I see people waiting outside.  Never a good sign.  I go in and take a number.  It’s packed.  I get number 46.  The screen shows number 98.  I have a 4.5 year old and a 2.5 year old.  I have no fireworks, food, portable DVDs, or plastic mass detention handcuffs.  I’m really going to have to pull out the stops on the raconteur thing.

So, naturally, I take them to the crab and lobster tank.

We do very well there for 40 minutes.  At least, very well in the frame of reference of a tired out of shape 36 year old father with a 4.5 year old and 2.5 year old waiting for 40 minutes in a crowded noisy fish store on Christmas Eve.  We made up names for each lobster and crab, and a little backstory for the ones who seemed sassier.  One was a runaway.  One was in time out for pinching-related misdemeanors.  Another was actually a dog named Ruprecht in disguise.

What will happen to them all?  The kids wanted to know.

Well, they’ll go on a special trip.

A trip?

Yes.

Like when we went to Canada last Christmas?

Yes, I undersand it’s very much like Canada, actually.

Having thus secured my practice of sowing present peace at the expense of future confusion and trauma, we bought our turkey and shrimp and departed.  To Starbucks.  Because Bill O’Reilly might get mad if we got ice cream.

A joyful Christmas Eve to all

Last 5 posts by Ken

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