Yeah, when you’re the youngest of seven kids, the holidays tend to be an extended affair.  

 

Grandchildren were amused by crinkled paper ….

 

… unholy quantities of food and drink were consumed …

 

… and whilst jiggling a four-month-old on his knee, Uncle B regaled the family with a story about airport security personnel overlooking mortar shells falling out of his backpack when he returned from Iraq. (Similar TSA officials, it should be noted, frisked my very Indian, heavily bearded and mustachioed husband at JFK International Airport, and grilled him for 15 minutes about looking “nervous” — I mean, he was preparing to visit his in-laws for the first time, how else would he look? — as I stood impatiently, waiting to make our way to the gate.)

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