Hello Vashonites and Mauronians — that doesn’t sound right. Hello, Beachcomber readers. I hope you had a wonderful Christmas. Specifically, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas dinner. “No,” you say? Once again you were seated at the wobbly card table or you had to sit next to that uncle who explains the entire Korean War? They say comparison is the thief of joy. Yet by the same token, comparison makes that less than perfect Christmas dinner look not so bad.

The year was 2006, and I was a newly-hired worker-bee for a defense contractor in Washington, D.C. My hire date was late October. By the time Christmas rolled around, my co-workers still didn’t know what to make of the new guy who came in late, left early and had a stunning array of troll dolls on his desk. It was a sure thing that I would be having a holiday dinner by myself.

As the afternoon shadows grew longer on Christmas Day, I began to make plans for a feast. A quick peek in the fridge revealed pretty standard bachelor fare. Milk past its sell-by date, a half can of beans and a small bottle of horseradish that I had somehow owned for more than 20 years. Nothing looked too feasty.

No problem. I’d just visit a local restaurant and share what I was thankful for that year with the waitstaff. I dressed in my most formal cycling gear and hopped on my bike. As I approached the first eatery, it appeared quite dark. Closed. Hmmm. The second and third were just as closed. I shook my fist in anger: “This is one of the most densely populated places in the country and no restaurant is open on Christmas? What about people who live in apartments that can’t feed a large group? What about people traveling on business? What about people who just have beans and horseradish from 1988?”

My tiny fist wasn’t impressing anybody.

On the slow plod back to home, I saw a beacon of hope in the distance, a Safeway grocery store. As I approached, it looked like the fall of Saigon and this was the last helicopter out. People were cramming themselves in the store with that desperate look of, “Are they out of cinnamon and heavy cream?”

I grabbed a little plastic basket and headed into the unknown. I’d never been in a Safeway before and hoped to pick the beer/candy/ frozen pizza/cheese/chips and shampoo aisle. I chose poorly. My aisle contained a visibly irritated store manager. “Sir, please go to the check out. My staff wants to get home for Christmas.” I couldn’t really argue with that so I spun on my heel and, with an empty basket, made my way to the check out counter.

I snagged a small box of crackers on an end cap and was waved into a checkout line. I tried to walk slowly as I frantically swiped things off the shelves like a first-time shoplifter. Anxious customers piled up behind me as I fumbled with a new debit card. When the transaction was approved, a bag was shoved my way, and I was out the door with … well I wasn’t exactly sure what I had purchased.

Once home, I dumped my goodies on the kitchen table and tried to make a Norman Rockwell Christmas dinner.

A bag of Skittles in a small cup was as close as I could get to my Aunt Rachel’s famous ambrosia salad. There was a choice of meats, however. The roast was three Slim Jims, and the fish was from overseas, Swedish Fish. A coconut Mounds bar was a great substitute for Brussels sprouts because I don’t like either one. And you’d be surprised how similar mashed potatoes and mashed Twinkies look. Reese’s cups made for very small but hard-to-slice pies. All of this would be accompanied by several bottles of 5-hour Energy.

Unfortunately, there would be no appetizers, as the small box of crackers turned out to be dryer sheets on sale. But for entertainment, I had a national newspaper that assured me the U.S. government had captured an alien bat-boy.

Ambience was set with a Bic lighter, and there was an assortment of twinkling ornaments: five hearing aid batteries, four tubes of glue, three sets of glasses, two toenail clippers and an awesome leather keychain.

I hope your Christmas dinner was most enjoyable, and I wish you all a most auspicious 2018.

— Chris Austin is the creator and owner of the Mostly True Vashon Tours.