By extended extended family, I mean the sort of family members that aren’t cousins, grandparents, aunts, or uncles. Extended extended extends to the realm of great aunts and all those once, twice, three times removed thingies nobody can every figure out.
“UGh,” you may grunt. Or, “Oooooh,” you may say in a knowing, pitying tone.You are imagining either stodgy old maids sitting around in a big circle knitting, or big, awkward strangers standing in a big circle around you silently, trying to remember what your name is. These are the “extended, extended” family of your imagination, the people you would never associate with but for the fact that somehow you are related.
I sayest to thee now, do not overgeneralize. Visiting this particular branch of my friend’s extended, extended family, I discovered just how brilliant extended, extended family can be.
When her great-uncle strode across the road to the bus station to meet us, I had my doubts. He looked jovial but not particularly interesting. By the way, first impressions are completely unreliable. During the car ride, he was polite and stuck to moderately well-trod topics like the weather, the lay of the land, and his wife’s business of cat breeding. Then we got out of the car, and walked into their cozy little country home. His wife met us there. The house smelled of cats. Sitting down on squashy sofas, we continued our average conversation as Great Uncle Dave lit the stove (the kind of stove that’s like a fireplace.) Great Aunt Rhoda began introducing her cats. There were two in the room. I was kind of wondering if there were more, because she was a cat breeder. Then she announced she had twenty. All right. Cat lady to the extreme. Conversation was getting quite interesting and Dave was beginning to show his true colors as a complete comedian.
Dinner really loosened everyone up. It was a magnificent spread! Roast chicken with roasted vegetables, potatoes, cheesy broccoli, and gravy; I stuffed myself. But there was more. We ate a cheese course. Okay, another British thing, cheese is really big here. Brie, Gouda, Stilton, Goat cheese, you name it, the Brits have it. Well, I suppose it’s spread over Europe. It is the continent of cheese. If you like cheese and old buildings, go to Europe. All right, but back to what I was saying. Dessert: Christmas pudding smothered in custard. Ah, it was breathtakingly delicious. Anyway, it is easy to understand how a wonderful meal like that would cheer everyone up.
To summarize, G. Aunt Rhoda and G. Uncle Dave were hilarious. They spoke lovingly about their drunk son-in-laws attacking an unfortunately overcooked goose with large, chopping knives at Christmas. Rhoda remembered how, as a teenager, she would hop on a ferry across the English channel and visit relatives in France, calling them up at midnight to ask if she could stay with them. She remembered smuggling chicks over the English Channel and raising them in her backyard. But Uncle D. was so British. He was the epitome, the paragon of Britishness. It’s hard to explain.We passed the evening submerged in laughter and food and cats.
At last, it was time to go home. Uncle Dave is a former racecar driver; let’s just say we got home in a timely fashion. That night we went to bed, tired and stuffed, ready in mind but not in soul for an long and uneventful Monday.
On that pessimistic note, farewell. Farewell. Farewell.