My brother Bocci is a chef, and a master of food planning, prep and organization. He's the one taking the bull by the horns. You will be able to tell from his e-mails how commanding he is. If he doesn't like your answer he just might make you cry (unless, of course, you're his big sister, and then you just write nasty things about him in your blog instead of crying).
I thought you might like to see what passes for communication in my family, so here are excerpts from the first round of e-mails. There will probably be more, with accelerated levels of smartass and snarkiness, but this is only Round One.
Brother Bocci: Hello All! We're getting close to Thanksgiving, and I know there are a lot of questions. I'm going to take the liberty of making some small assignments -- that will hopefully make everything easy for everyone. If you disagree with the assignments, I'll be choosing where you sleep:
Director of Swanky Eating
Trader Joe's Eatery
Overpriced Bay Area, California
* ONLY one oven. This is how my brother the chef thinks.
** This is a joke. Dad hardly drinks at all. The rest of us, however, pull his load for him.
*** Chas is figuring an ounce per person per minute per waking hour. Plus a little extra.
**** As if.
***** We run the gamut in our family, from almost Communist to not-quite-John Birch Society. We tease each other quite a bit and no one seems offended, so don't you be offended, okay?
****** No it isn't. We're going to Tahoe.
******* Check out that word, "allow." Cut it out, Mom -- he's gonna get a swelled head! We shoud be snapping him with towels and playing Hide From Bocci like the old days.
******** Obviously, Bocci has not met my readers. Both of your are lovely, and certainly NOT runny-nosed basement-dwellers. Although I wonder a bit about Bob Cleveland . . .