Everyone had to come over for the whole day, edging well into the night. It happened nearly every year, round about the same time, early April. Something about it being Easter (though Easter was a whole week from now). It was supposed to be a time when the family comes together. Some families are best kept far, far away from each other, and any well-meaning attempt to “bring the family together” is doomed to end in bitter bloodshed.
Maude Kennelway reflected on this as she headed to the kitchen to put out plates of food. This had to be done strategically and carefully. According to her calculations, there was a fifty to sixty percent chance Aunt Clover would be in one of her natural foods phases, in which she carefully studied the nutritional content of everything before it went near her mouth. And Uncle Morris would gobble up everything in his path, so it was best to space out his favourite foods along the table (beef stroganoff, fruit kebabs and peanuts-he consumed copious amounts of all three with astonishing alacrity). Maude dutifully placed the fruit kebabs on the opposite side of the table from the peanuts.
“Maude! Why don't you wear that lovely skirt-” came Mrs Kennelway's voice from the front porch.
“Mum, the last time I wore a skirt was November twenty-third. Two thousand and two. That wedding thing we had to go to, remember?” she probed
“It's just, relatives are coming, and...”
“I. Am. Not.” stated Maude, enunciating each word firmly and with, if not malice, steadfast obstinacy, “Wearing. A. Skirt” Maude gave the last word a special inflection designed to create the impression of disgust. She had an aversion to skirts, one that also extended to dresses, blouses, and jeans that weren't baggy.
Mrs Kennelway gave a sigh. Good, thought Maude. Threat averted. She poured a packet of chips into a bowl, screwed up the packet, and dumped it in the bin.
