Christmas Eve

Soon is over. Christmas Eve and the Vickersons have not retired.

Mrs. Vickerson is busy wrapping presents in the bedroom, while husband John, exhausted as he is from the pre-holiday activity, puts the finishing touches to the tree, which stands proudly in the kitchen, the only other room in the Vickerson's small apartment.

Listen. John? John? Will you bring the scissors, please? What is he doing in there? I'm falling asleep on the ladder. I haven't got the heart to wake him.

I better get him off of there. John! John! Surprise, what happened? Oh, you poor dear, did you hurt yourself? No, no, I'm alright. I'll let you fall off that ladder, I must have faded. Yes, dear, you were fainting like a log when I came in.

Why, John! You never even tapped your dinner. Not a marshal of it. I don't like the looks of a blanch. Oh, stop that talk. It's perfectly good, food. You let it sit down on the kitchen table for hours getting cold.

Do you want me to warm it up for you? No. Just tell me what's on that big plate. Are you trying to be funny, John? I'm not trying to be funny, Blanch. What is it?

You know very well. I can only cook two things. Liver and rice pudding. But which one is that? How can you be so nasty on Christmas Eve, John? Blanch, I just asked you a civil question.

That's all. I didn't think it was liver, Never because your liver always looks like rubber heels. That stuff looks more like scrambled eggs, so I thought it might be rice pudding. Why don't you taste it and find out?