IN AN UNLIKELY FEAT of timing or simple coincidence, all four grandparents have arrived more or less together. Vic's parents, Bill and Evelyn, push in ahead, well dressed and bearing liquor store bags. They plant air kisses and bustle into the kitchen to begin preparing martinis.

Love Bill and Evelyn. So much more considerate than my parents, who enter next, empty-handed, asking what's for dinner (my Dad) and wondering aloud if I'll burn the potatoes again (my Mum).

Still, they're here and that's what counts. When I sent the spur of the moment invitation out this morning, I'd assumed they'd be too busy at such short notice (it is, after all, my Mother's creative writing group night), but they'd dutifully dropped all plans when I said their granddaughter needed them. Or, perhaps more accurately, that I needed them to help me remind her why she should get back to campus before she loses the semester.

While Bill and Vic pour martinis and drop juicy olives into glasses, I check on the two lasagnas I worked all afternoon on: a vegan one for Maeve and a regular one for the older people who can't fathom why anyone would want to eat non-dairy anything. The tremendous pain in the ass of cranking pasta dough through the little metal pasta maker (brought home from our honeymoon in Italy and used exactly once since) will all have been worth it when my culinary skills are loudly appreciated later, I assure myself.

Once everyone has a drink in their hand (except my Father, who declines a martini and asks instead for Fresca: a strange aspartame-tasting soda that was popular in the 80s but is nearly impossible to find now and of course I don't have), they take up their positions around the large dining room table like a ragtag version of the UN.

Switzerland opens with pleasantries. "Cheers, everyone," Evelyn lifts her glass toward the middle of the table.

I notice my Father (Canada) trying to make eye contact with my Mother (the UK, Boris Johnson era) while everyone clinks glassware, but as he's way over on the other side of the table, he is overlooked by his once-closest ally.

"Ed," Vic's Dad (America?) says to mine, "That's a hell of a sweater you have on. Now, where does a person get a sweater like that?" Despite being on the same side of the table, Bill couldn't be more different from my Dad, and there's a barely hidden air of superiority in his not-quite-a-compliment. 

Just happy to have been included in the conversation, my Father beams and plucks at his tacky Christmas sweater, which looks to be made of highly-flammable polyester yarn and features three blue cookie-monsters wearing gold crowns, giving gifts to a baby Jesus. Or, what one can only assume is the baby Jesus because the cradle is mostly hidden under my Father's robust middle. "It's a beauty, isn't it?" he says with some pride.

"Very unique," agrees Evelyn.

"Uniquely garish," murmurs my Mother under her breath, but loud enough to be heard by my Father, who is accustomed to her little digs and shrugs it off. He doesn't remind her that she herself bought him the sweater a lifetime ago when she too thought Cookie Monster nativity scenes were funny.

The room falls into an awkward silence.  I take a large gulp of my martini and feel the warm confidence it supplies make its way to my vocal cords, causing me to ask a question I will instantly regret: "How's your creative writing group, Mum? Written anything good lately?"

She looks delighted to have been asked. "As it happens, one of my stories is going to appear in a preeminent publication of short fiction."

"Fantastic!" enthuses Bill, who has clearly never read my Mother's writing. "We'll be sure to go out and buy ten copies! What's the publication?"

"Penthouse Forum!" she says with the same general haughtiness as if the answer had been The New Yorker.

Evelyn's mouth forms a little 'ohhh' shape while Bill blushes from the neck up. Neither of them appears to know what to say about that. I stand up abruptly and head to the kitchen for another drink, eager to excuse myself from any further discussion of my Mother's new hobbyist career as a smut auteur.

As I leave the room, I hear my Father say, "I think that's marvellous. I always knew you had a talent."

I wish he wouldn't encourage her. 

I TAKE MY TIME in the kitchen, hoping to extend my absence from the other room as long as possible. I slowly decant two bottles of red wine to go with dinner. I press my face up against the oven's glass to check on the lasagnas and find them bubbling and browning on top. Pouring myself an oversized glass of wine to keep me company, I leisurely begin to put a green salad together. My Mother's voice still filters though from the dining room — she's talking about where she gets her story ideas from — so I turn the radio up until it drowns her out.

I'm taking quick sips of the (delicious!) Barolo and carefully ripping the stems from a crisp, peppery bunch of black kale when "Faith" comes on. Another danceable classic.

Wisely ensuring first that no teenagers with smartphones are in the vicinity, I allow myself a little strut behind the counter, channelling my inner George Michael.

Well, it takes a strong man, baby
But I'm showin' you the door
'Cause I gotta have faith
I gotta' have faith
Because I gotta have faith, faith, faith
I got to have faith, faith, faith

I hear a throat clearing sound behind me and turn to find Vic leaning against the island, watching me amusedly. I smile and hold my hand out to him.

Instead of mocking me, he grabs my hand and does his own immaculate impression of George's denim-clad leg work.

Well, I need someone to hold me but I'll wait for somethin' more
'Cause I gotta have faith
Ooh, I gotta have faith, faith, faith-ah!

The song ends abruptly and we fall against each other, laughing. I'm out of breath from just three minutes of dancing, but Vic, fit and steady from years of early morning runs, is just fine. He hugs me tightly.

"Come on, George," he says, lightly tapping my bottom. "Let's get food on the table before your mother uses the word orgasm in front of my parents again."

THE FROM-SCRATCH LASAGNA wafts good smells from the centre of the table, where we now have our full complement of family members, Tim and Maeve included. Maeve is looking surly at one end, poking at a piece of bread while her grandparents deploy a hundred questions a minute at her.

She sticks to one word answers; an iron curtain meant to keep them out but also to keep herself in.

The grandparents are so focused on their Cold War interrogation tactics, they've barely acknowledged Tim, their youngest grandchild, who is sitting at the other end of the table beside me, discreetly fiddling with a video game under the table.

As the salad is passed around, I serve up squares of my homemade pasta, layered with spinach and cheese (real or not). "Tim," I hiss, dropping a plate in front of him, "No Minecraft at the table, please. Put it away."

My Father makes the grave mistake of asking our thirteen-year-old boy what Minecraft is.

Tim launches into an over-detailed description of the self-defending underground bunker he is building, which contains secret passageways and replicating booby traps that make it 'creeper-proof' — or, something to that effect, Minecraft words having the habit of melding into one giant, incomprehensible stew to the adult ear. I've long since stopped asking because I find myself incapable of mustering any interest in the game that has entranced my child for years. But sensing a captive audience in his grandparents, he goes on and on, detailing the percent-discoverability of essential enderman-killing titanium ore versus obsidian, all the while shoving forks full of lasagna into his non-stop mouth.

I nudge his knee under the table and flash him the universal signal to stop talking with his mouth full, but he ignores me and continues. It's rare that anyone expresses interest in the world he spends most of his leisure time in, so he's not missing this opportunity.

We're all grateful (except perhaps Maeve who was glad to have had the UN's attention turned elsewhere even temporarily) when my Mother cuts into his monologue, saying, "It's wonderful to be passionate and knowledgeable about a thing, Tim. But it's important to know your audience."

Bill chuckles at the irony, given that my Mother spent a good thirty minutes earlier detailing erotic plotlines to an uncomfortable audience and is possibly, about to say something to that effect, when Tim, not wanting to lose the floor, offers what seems initially like a non-sequitur of the grandest proportions:

"What does 'orgasm' mean?"

Vic makes a choking noise at the other end of the table, and I whip a cupped hand over my son's mouth as if I could stuff what he just said straight back in. 

"Honey," I whisper. "That's not a question for the table. We can take a look through that book I bought you later, okay? Everything you ever wanted to know about...."

"Where did you hear that word, kiddo?" asks Bill, draining his glass of wine.

Tim can't respond under my cupped hand, so he points. At my Mother. Of course.

All eyes turn to her.

She goes bright red and says, "I didn't... when would I... oh, were you listening earlier when I was talking about my stories?"

Tim nods. I release his face from my iron grip. He'd probably been under the table the whole time.

He puts another bite of lasagna into his mouth and says, by way of explanation, "I'm passionate about Minecraft the same way Gran is passionate about orgasms. But I guess people don't like to talk about either at the dinner table."