Milk by Emily Hammond Page B

she would say, gesturing at a sideboard groaning with homemade potato salad and three-bean salad, breads and hoagie rolls gotten from some expensive out-of-the-way baker, various cheeses both common and imported, pâtés, crackers, chips (that somehow didn’t resemble or taste like anything else served on the face of the earth); jello that wasn’t Jello jello—but a gelatin made from scratch, delicate, lightly sweetened (delighting both children and adults alike) with fresh fruit and whipped cream folded in somehow, the whole mold upended and placed, without a dent or mar, on a ceramic cake plate, then marvelously cut into jiggling slices. And she served it to you personally, with a fancy-tined spatula, all the while telling you (again), “We’re casual tonight. Just sandwiches and whatnot. Help yourself!” Glasses with the ice already in them, ice, incidentally that never seemed to melt; paper plates, yes, but paper mâché plates arranged inside wicker basket holders with little handles. The food tasted so delicious, you’d line up for seconds, even thirds. Aunt Lyla would insist on it. “Oh honestly,” she’d say, “it’s a party! Don’t be such a boy scout.” It was as if you’d never tasted a roast beef sandwich before, or salad, or iced tea; who knew it could be so heavenly? Nor would you be able to reproduce this meal on your own, either, although Aunt Lyla was more than glad to give you the recipes, typed out just for you on her own personalized recipe cards.
    Holiday parties were the best: massive Easter egg hunts for the kids with the eggs hidden everywhere, anywhere—on the gutters of the roof, at the very tip top of the orange trees (how did she get them up there? … it had to be her, Uncle Morgan stayed out of such matters); or at Christmas, a tree that might as well have been in the White House, and Christmas stockings as long as your leg, brimming over with toys (you were never too old for toys!), each one selected with only you in mind. So different from our own father who filled our normal-sized, dull red stockings with practical items like scotch tape and soap and ballpoint pens, the price tags still affixed. This was after our mother died so we were old enough to know by then that it wasn’t Santa Claus who packed stockings, but parents. Aunt Lyla was every bit as good as Santa Claus, though, if not better. At Christmas she and Uncle Morgan would even dress up, he as Santa Claus, and she not as Mrs. Claus but a saucy elf in short felt skirt rimmed with white fur (to show off her legs), matching cap, black boots with her trademark stiletto heels. Or maybe she was supposed to be Mrs. Claus—a young mod Mrs. Claus.
    The deal was, at Christmas—as well as every other holiday—we’d spend the early part of the morning at our house, chomping at the bit to go to Aunt Lyla’s. This was only after our mother died. Before she died we seldom went over there, especially not on holidays, and when we did go our father accompanied us. Our mother stayed home. She and Aunt Lyla didn’t speak. They simply had little to say. They got on each other’s nerves. They weren’t close, or so went my father’s explanation in later years, what bits he would tell me.
    After fifteen minutes of pacing Aunt Lyla’s kitchen, peeking in drawers, snitching cookies, I venture upstairs.
    â€œAunt Lyla?”
    She emerges from her bedroom smoothing on hand lotion. “Oh there you are, dear. I was beginning to worry.”
    She offers me her cheek, as though we saw each other yesterday rather than five years ago at my wedding, and says, “Don’t you look fresh! So outdoorsy.”
    Which means my attire is questionable. I glance down. Same old black jeans, my suede boots again (from which, thank God, I remembered to remove the dollop of spaghetti sauce), a raw silk tee shirt that I thought was hip but now seems