My family is absolutely nuts about ice cream. We will eat it anytime and anywhere — yes, even in winter. 

One year, my family gathered at my parents’ house for the holidays. My younger son wanted ice cream following dinner. I told him if he didn’t stay in the kitchen to eat it, then he must take it to the sunroom. I knew he would pass my brother’s two young sons on the way. As he left the kitchen, I counted down out loud.

Me: “Three, two, one.”  

Nephews: “ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM!”

Brother: *To me* “Did you just count down?”

Me: “And you didn’t?”

When I was a kid, my dad and I were at Thanksgiving dinner with my dad’s girlfriend and her family.

Me: *Proudly* “Dad, both of your girlfriends have the same first name!”

Dad: “Oh, you’re just a little kid; you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But I “reminded” him of [Girlfriend #2]’s full name. She happened to be a coworker of [Girlfriend #1]’s sister, so there was no doubting that she was a real person.

Several years ago, after Grandpa’s first stroke, my dad and grandpa went to a great big extended family reunion. It had been quite a while since they’d seen that side of the family. Grandpa wasn’t saying much because of the stroke, but his mind was as sharp as ever, so when he said something, people listened.

Grandpa: “I guess [Relative] finally gave up woodworking.”

Dad: “What makes you say that, Dad?”

Grandpa: “Well, he’s not missing any more fingers.”

Later, Dad decided to go talk to [Relative].

Dad: “My dad seems to think you’ve given up woodworking.”

Relative: *Surprised* “Well, yeah, but how’d he know about that?”

Dad: “He says it’s because you stopped losing fingers.”

Dad looked at [Relative]’s hands, and sure enough, [Relative] was missing several fingers.

Relative: *Indignant* “That’s not why I stopped! I stopped because my workshop burned down and my wife wouldn’t let me buy more tools!”

Relative’s Wife: *Cracking up* “I wouldn’t let you buy more tools so you’d stop losing fingers!”

For my family friend’s sixteenth birthday, we went to see Alfred Ellis play at an open garden concert. It was a casual picnic-style affair, but due to certain members of the five families being extremely culinary, it turned into a buffet, to the point that we needed tables, which we brought. During the first intermission, the ten teenagers were ready to descend on the food like wild animals, but we were raised better than our instincts, so we each grabbed a plate and lined up.

We then realised that we had a longer line than expected. About thirty people had lined up behind us. The sweet little old lady behind me asked where the till was, so we had to explain to people that it was a private meal for someone’s birthday.

Most were very understanding — and were given a plate of what we had not touched later — but one woman decided that, because we had set it up the way we had, we were wait staff, we were liars, and we would be comping her food for the trauma she had suffered. We were middle-class white kids in Somerset in the early 2000s. You could not get sadder or more diverse in clothing. We did not look like waitstaff. If she had called us vagrants, hippies, or gangsters, she may have been closer.

During her rant, a strawberry landed on her hat. She didn’t notice. But we sure did. So now she had something to scream about, as we were laughing at her FOR NO REASON, HOWDAREWEVERYMUCH! Then, another strawberry hit her, hard enough for her to notice. She looked up and a raspberry got her in the chin.

Unfortunately for her, the emotional infants of the group — two of the dads, mine included — had decided that the pile of strawberries and raspberries for pudding could be sacrificed in order to put her in her place. It took a few tries for her to get it, but every time she opened her maw to carry on, they would chuck a strawberry at her. She left when we all moved to join in.

The best part was when we spotted her far away, over-gesturing at what was clearly a manager. He gave the excellent response of a “What do you expect me to do about it?” shrug. He didn’t come over.

I also got to meet Alfred Ellis when he became a doctorate at my university some years later. My friend was extremely jealous.

I’m at a large family reunion at a cabin owned by some extended family. Obviously, not everyone there knows everyone else well, since the relationships go back to my great-grandparents’ generation.

[Cousin #1], her brother [Cousin #2], and I are in the kitchen. [Cousin #1] has deputized her brother and me to squeeze limes and chop garlic; she herself is working steadily through a large pile of avocados, taking the pits out by slicing a knife into them and twisting them. 

One of my aunts from another branch of the family, who doesn’t know my cousins, is a notorious busybody. She can never resist telling everyone exactly what she thinks without asking herself if that’s a good idea. She comes in, sees the situation, and makes a beeline right for us just as [Cousin #1] is moving the knife toward an avocado pit.

[Aunt] grabs [Cousin #1] suddenly and jerks her arm.

Aunt: “Stop!”

Cousin #1: “Aaaagh!”

She drops the knife — luckily onto the counter — and grabs at her left hand; I see blood. She whirls on [Aunt]. [Cousin #1] is about five-foot-nothing and has a bit of a babyface, but she has an extremely loud voice.

Cousin #1: “Jesus Christ, what the f***?!”

It’s the first time I’ve seen [Aunt] speechless even for a second.

Cousin #1: “What is wrong with you?! Do not sneak up like that! I could have cut my g**d*** fingers off, you idiot!”

Aunt: “I was trying to tell you not to cut the avocados like that. You could have hurt yourself!”

Cousin #1: “So, you decided to grab me from behind while I was moving a knife?! Yeah, that’s really safe! Whatever happened to ‘excuse me,’ huh? Get out of my way. I need a bandaid — if I don’t need stitches. [Cousin #2], finish the guacamole. And you, dumba**, out of my kitchen!”

She storms past us towards the bathroom. [Aunt], of course, doesn’t leave.

Aunt: “There’s no reason to be rude! I was just trying to help.”

Cousin #2: “That was pretty mild for [Cousin #1].”

Me: “Yeah, I think she only used the F word once. And she doesn’t need your help. She’s a professional chef; she knows what she’s doing.”

Aunt: “I would never let one of my children do that.”

Cousin #2: “She’s not a child; she’s twenty-eight.”

Realizing she wasn’t going to get any sympathy from either of us, [Aunt] finally left. I later found out that she tracked down my cousins’ father and complained to him about his daughter’s behaviour… and then learned where exactly [Cousin #1] had learned not to suffer fools as he bellowed at [Aunt] that it was her fault his precious jewel got hurt. 

I don’t know if [Aunt] has learned to stop butting in all over the place, but she may have learned to choose her targets better.