Just as Skylar returned to the kitchen, Aunt Col was refreshing her coffee with the whiskey Gran kept hidden under the sink next to the Windex. “Hit me up, Aunt Col.”
Colleen nodded, removed another mug, and doused the bottom with three fingers of Tullamore Dew before topping it with coffee.
“Cheers.” Aunt Col clanked her mug to Skylar’s and returned to the stove.
Skylar lightened her coffee with a dash of cream, but her eyes still watered at the first potent sip. Someone fell off the porch and she winced at the clatter, followed immediately by a burst of masculine laughter. Such compassionate uncles she had.
In a few minutes the wives would start yelling at the men in the same voices they used to scold the children. And the uncles would obediently disperse to help set the tables like chastised little boys, because no matter how primitive and caveman-esque the McCullough men behaved, they knew how their bread got buttered, and the McCullough women always called the shots in the end.
Gran bustled through the cellar door with wild green eyes, shoving a bushel of potatoes into Skylar’s arms. “Oh, thank Christ you’re back, love. Your mother left because we ran out of diapers and James got into the chocolates with Pop. Well, you know how he is with dairy. He’s covered in shite. I mean the stuff shot right out his arse and up his back. Your grandfather’s nowhere to be found, of course. Vinnie’s upstairs with your brother now, trying to get him in the tub, but you know how boys are—bitching and moaning about the slightest inconvenience. I mean really, how dare we ask them to pitch in with the kids? Anyway, I have to go check on them. You peel these potatoes and—whatever you do—don’t let any of your uncles take the blowtorch out of the kitchen. I hid it under the sink next to the whiskey and Windex.”
Gran said all of this without taking a single breath, while also backing out of the old farm kitchen, drying her hands on her battered apron, and stealing a sip of Colleen’s coffee.
Skylar blinked, her arms trembling under the weight of so many potatoes. “O—okay.”
The other aunts worked like military chefs supplying a feed line.
Aunt Sheilagh glanced over her shoulder from where she chopped celery at the counter and snickered. “Nothing like another super sane Sunday dinner at the asylum. Drinking yet?”
Skylar lugged the potatoes toward the table and dropped the bushel onto the floor. “Aunt Col fixed my coffee.”
“Oh, damn, you’re committed.”
Skylar shrugged and began peeling. “Do you really think Finn’s going to cook Augustus?”
Sheilagh snorted. “Not a chance. My brother’s way too soft to kill that bird. It might as well be a pet by now. Twenty bucks says his whole family orders off the vegetarian menu this Thursday.”
Skylar shook her head and hid a chuckle. “He should have never named it.” Uncle Finn had five kids who spent the summer feeding and loving Augustus. “Do you think he knows?”
“That he’s an idiot?” Sheilagh filled the large pot with water for the potatoes. “Probably. I’ve been telling him for years.”
“I meant the bird. Do you think Augustus knows his days are numbered?”
“Work while you gossip, love.” Aunt Rosemarie patted the idle peeler in Skylar’s hand. “It’s how we make the side dishes so juicy.”
Sheilagh hauled the pot of water to the table so Skylar could soak the peeled potatoes. “Finnegan won’t be killing any turkey this year. He’d devastate the kids. Hell, Gianna made the damn thing a pilgrim hat!”
Skylar laughed. “Are they frying something today?”
“Lord, help us.” Aunt Rosemarie joined her with another peeler. “Let’s just hope no one gets rushed to the emergency room. I don’t feel like driving on the interstate. It’s Sunday, all the kooks are out.”
“Let’s hope they don’t burn the house down,” Aunt Sheilagh grumbled.
A loud explosion rattled the house and Skylar flinched, her shoulders shooting up to her ears as her eyes went wide with concern.
Gran’s voice echoed from upstairs as a storm of profanity rained from the rafters and all the kids came barreling into the kitchen from the den to see what caused the commotion.
“What was that?” several little voices demanded.
“Sweet Mary and Joseph, I told those bloody bastards not to use that thing on my porch!” Gran stormed into the kitchen and snatched a wooden spoon off the counter. It was her weapon of choice when commanding an army of idiots. “I’m going to beat someone’s arse if I find one scorched inch on my house! Vinnie, get your brother out of the tub. Sheilagh, check the roast.”
A cloud of smoke billowed into the kitchen from the porch and Gran coughed, batting the smog away with an irritated swing of her hand. “For Christ’s sake, Finnegan! I told you something like this would happen. Is anyone hurt?”