I used to have impossibly high hopes for family holiday dinners. I blame Norman Rockwell. Remember his painting of a well-dressed family gathered around a flawlessly set table?  The children, parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents sit shoulder-to-shoulder, admiring an unpardoned turkey that was browned to perfection. In my opinion, this painting is based on magical thinking, at least regarding our family.

For example, at one Thanksgiving dinner, a single Brussels sprout set off a series of unfortunate mishaps. That day, we gathered around a nicely set table: a crisp white tablecloth, crystal candlesticks, our best dinner plates, cobalt blue water glasses—not quite Martha Stewart, but not camping at Sherando Lake either. A large bowl of roasted Brussels sprouts sat at the center. My middle son had taken great pride in preparing them. Not long into the meal, another son started choking on a Brussels sprout. I don’t remember how we resolved the problem, possibly someone employed the Heimlich maneuver, but probably not. We felt shaken, but we had dodged a bullet, or in this case, a sprout, so we continued dining.

            That day, Grandpa Jimmy wore an oversized fisherman’s sweater, with droopy sleeves. As he reached to scoop some Brussels sprouts, his arm lingered over a lit candle. As you might expect, the sleeve caught fire.

Everyone screamed at once, “Grandpa! Fire! Your sleeve!” Eventually, someone doused the flames.

            Trying to do a good deed, my middle son, maker of the Brussels sprouts, decided he would cool off Grandpa by bringing him some Coke with ice.  A few seconds after he placed the lovely cobalt blue glass next to Grandpa, we heard a POP! The glass exploded sending ice, Coke, and blue shards across the table. I would love to see Norman Rockwell painting of that scene.

            Another choking event had occurred years before at a Christmas dinner in a church basement, where many of my seventeen first cousins and their toddlers gathered. With three zillion little ones running around, we cousins knew an elegant dining experience was beyond reach. Instead, we aimed for conviviality, hoping there would be no biting/punching/kicking among our combined offspring.

            During the post-dinner chaos, I noticed a one-year-old cruising alone in a walker, exploring multiple hazards within his reach. I pointed out the child to his mom (my cousin), then stopped paying attention to them as I broke up another altercation occurring closer to me. A few minutes later, my cousin ran up to me with her son in her arms. She said, “He’s choking.”

 I grabbed the stiff, blue-faced child and attempted to perform the Heimlich maneuver. My maneuver lacked the needed oomph. Fortunately, another person noticed the situation. From behind, she encircled her arms around both me and the child then pushed hard, causing the boy to spew out the offending object.

Not all our disasters have occurred at Thanksgiving and Christmas. One year, I planned to host Easter dinner and had invited multiple extended family members, some from out of state. The week before, I scrubbed down the house, shopped, baked pies, and planned the logistics for our traditional Easter Egg Hunt/Massacre.

I’m not sure if you can use the term “food poison” as a verb. Regardless whether you can or can’t, I food poisoned myself the night before Easter morning by eating leftover Chinese takeout that had gone bad. So, instead of guiding the troops through Easter dinner and the requisite egg hurling afterwards, I spent the day “reviewing the menu” in our upstairs bathroom.

            As our holiday incidents have piled up over the years, my criteria for judging the success of an event have changed. Here is my list:

*No choking on or spewing of holiday foods.

*No exploding objects.

*No people catching fire.

*No food poisoning. (And, if poisoning occurs, I always claim plausible deniability).

Against all odds, here’s hoping for a happy, non-hazardous Norman Rockwell holiday for one and all.