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For Americans, the biggest food-feast day of the year is Thanksgiving, with Christmas Day being a reasonably close second. For Russians, however, it's New Year's Day. This is what Aleksandr told me as he explained his traditions and the reason for the opportunity, finally, to meet his family. I was very nervous about it, simply because "meeting the 'rents" is always something of a nerve-wracking experience for all. There have been plenty of films made about the subject, all of them various levels and varieties of comedies, all of them (by my count) about heterosexual couples. It could hardly be much easier for gay couples (harder, in my general experience, having heard about it through friends), although Aleksandr did his best to reassure me. "You'll be fine," he said. "After all, you know how to eat, right?"

That earned him a raspberry. Not the edible kind.

We had rung in the new year quietly with Maggers and Sylvie -- popped corn and watched a movie (not one of those I've just mentioned), then shared our welcoming kisses quite tenderly when the clock chimed the hour. When I had my turn with him, the buffed, tawny lion of the pair whispered something in my ear that I wasn't entirely sure that I'd heard right. He pulled back and winked at me, confirming that I had indeed heard what he said. I had no details about the suggestion, at the time; if the suggestion became reality, it would very much be a story for the future, although I'm not sure if I'd want to share it. The idea was... well, never mind.

Sleeping in, at least a little, wasn't an issue. I was informed that the dress code for the day would be what my lion called "Visiting Comfies" -- not quite as casual as what we wore around my house or his apartment, but simple and reasonably lightweight. The weather for New Year's Day was cold but clear, so "lightweight" (with layers as needed) would work. Aleksandr drove my minivan, it being more comfortable for both of us than his Jeep; he knew the way better than I, so it made sense for him to take the wheel. We were to reach his parents' home by early afternoon for what was described as "a modest family feast" which might take several courses to complete. I tried to be calm about things and, true to form, Aleksandr had talked me through a lot of my worries. I've never been good about meeting new people, even at the best of times. Only once in my history had a relationship ever gotten to this all-important phase; in that particular instance, the parents' hesitation stemmed from their fear that I was too good for their offspring (that may or may not be true; I've since credited our breakup to many issues between us). I'd no reason to think that to be the case here. Still, I had to do my best to remember to keep breathing.

When we pulled up to the house, I was momentarily convinced that it had to be the wrong address. Aleksandr had told me stories of his growing up in a comparatively large house, with at least four bedrooms and space for a large living room (the setting for the story of his nearly taking down the Christmas tree, when roughhousing with his brother), not to mention the large back yard where the kits had played so many exuberant games together. A half-second later, I remembered that Aleksandr's parents had moved into a smaller house a little time after their kits had moved out of the original house.

The two-bedroom bungalow-style home looked perfect, with an impressive faux A-frame front that provided a portico for the front door. Hanging under the tall eaves of the house, the Moravian star that we had ordered and sent to them glowed softly from within; it was very likely to remain there through Epiphany (or Twelfth Night) on January 6th, given the traditional sensibilities of the owners. I also had taken note of the princely-sized town car of a soft cream color which, like our own conveyance, was parked in front of the house. I presumed that it belonged to Aleksandr's brother. From what my lion had said of him, Dmitri was not a show-off; he was, however, glad to be able to afford something luxurious and comfortable that was also practical. The car was a hybrid that, although large, probably got good mileage.

My lion turned off the van's engine, then turned to put a large, tender forepaw on my shoulder. "Ready to enter the lions' den?" he quipped.

"I've walked into yours often enough; I'm not at all sure about this one, though." I looked down for a moment, then turned to look into his antique-gold eyes, those strong, reassuring eyes that belonged to him who I loved more than anyone or anything in the world. I managed a smile. "I do have one advantage."

He raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to continue.

"My name isn't Daniel."

"Point," he admitted with a grin. "Come on; Mama will have seen us pull up by now. She'll get her first look at you that isn't just a photo."

As I maneuvered myself out of the van, I noted, "I thought I remembered 'mamuska'_and _'daduska,' if I'm pronouncing them right."

"Nice endearments, although that's more like 'mommy' and 'daddy,' and Dmitri and I grew up with the more affectionate 'Mama' and 'Papa' which are the same in both languages." Aleksandr came around from the opposite side and took my forepaw into his own. "I'm glad that you're keeping up your studies; it's difficult to learn the alphabet, much less the words."

"Ya starayus' izo vsekh sil."

"Your pronunciation is getting better, love. I've never heard 'The coffee is burnt' better said."

I squeezed his paw as I looked up at him in horror.

He leaned down from his superior height of a bit over two meters and kissed me atop my head. "I'm joking, Tristan. We watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding together, remember?"

Just before he rang the bell (which was polite, but probably unnecessary), I asked, "How do you say 'I have three testicles' in Russian?"

He looked like he was about to tell me when the door opened wide to reveal a lovely, solidly-built lioness of perhaps 160cm with the appearance of a farmer's wife -- strong, capable, a sense of many mornings of waking early to perform chores. Perhaps the British meaning of "stout" would apply to her, not in the least pejoratively. It was she who gave Aleksandr his cerulean fur, as hers matched his own very closely. Their faces almost melted into one another as she hugged him, speaking warmly to him with words I could not quite catch beyond her saying the affectionate form of his name, "Sasha." In my opinion, the Russian language itself is proof of the passionate Russian heart; words flow softy, lovingly, and with a strength of spirit in them that spoke of centuries of survival and personal triumph, whatever the circumstances.

When finally they separated, Aleksandr kept his arm around her as he turned to present her to me. "Mama, this is Tristan Black Wolf."

She extended her forepaw to me, and I clasped it gently, nodding a small bow to her. "Zdravstvuyte," I said.

"A ty govorish' po russki?"_I recognized the phrase: _Do you speak Russian?

"Ya starayus' izo vsekh sil." I'm trying my best.

"Khorosho!" she exclaimed warmly. "My kit is teaching you well."

"More like correcting my pronunciation and grammatical errors," I laughed gently. "I'm very glad to meet you."

"I am so glad to meet you, Tristan. Ah! My manners have slipped. Please, call me Kyra." She smiled knowingly. "Perhaps you will call me Mama one day?"

The implication wasn't lost on anyone present, and I could feel myself blushing. "Perhaps," I allowed. "I would be honored to do so."

"Genteel, this one," she said in an aside to Aleksandr. She waved us toward the door with a grand gesture and a huge smile. "Inside, before we freeze!"

I padded into the house, followed by my lover and my hostess. Despite some etiquette books telling you that it is a social faux pas to do so, I took in the sensations of the home, if only because it provided the proof of my lover's origins so very well. Despite this being a home perhaps half the size of that original family dwelling, his parents had made excellent use of the space, and what I saw allowed me to imagine what the larger home might have been like.

It was about family; that sensation was chief above all. To my left, a dining room, which took only a glance to confirm by its contents: the large table, cloth-covered and already set for the upcoming feast, and the formal trappings of a china cabinet and sideboard -- things rarely seen in today's houses, more's the pity. Aleks had told me of his family's traditional nutcracker, and I saw the figure (perhaps 35cm) in pride of place on the table, probably to be moved when various platters of food arrived.

To my right, a large living room, set about with happily mismatched furniture pulled together (as interior designers would say) by paw-made shawls, coverlets, and a nice collection of happy bric-a-brac, not too little, not too much. The fireplace was large, set with a modest blaze, the hearth above adorned with pictures in frames, along with a few tchotchkes of appropriate vintage and size not to burden the setting. Unlike so many "modern" homes, this one made me feel welcome. It was, to make the joke, homey.

From their place on the sofa, a tawny young lion and lioness rose to greet me. Both were dressed in velour pants and lightweight, long sleeved shirts, all in bold but not garish shades of purple and gold. I entertained the notion that Santa had brought them something happily matching. Preceding me into the room, Aleksandr went directly to his brother, and the two of them engaged in a mock-wrestling, back-slapping hug that had all the sense of being a traditional greeting that had been lovingly polished over a long period of time. The Russian words that flew back and forth between them could have been anything from affection to brotherly put-downs, but they were exchanged with enthusiasm and more than a little love. I had just a moment to compare them, for my own writer's reference more than anything else. Dmitri stood a bit under the 2m mark, only a little taller than myself, yet his bearing still marked him as the "big" brother. Not quite four years apart, the elder naturally had hit his "growth spurt" first, and he'd used the advantage for a while. When Aleksandr outgrew him, there was a little bit of revenge, but nothing that caused a wedge between them. Stories about all aspects of family life had come to me over the past six months, and I was going to enjoy finding out how well the various memories would compare.

Kyra took me by the arm and led me to the young lioness in the room. "While my kits remember who they are," she smirked gently, "allow me to introduce you to Lorita. Lorita, this is Tristan Black Wolf."

In these modern times, one is unsure quite what the protocols might be for greeting anyone, but perhaps particularly a spouse. I began by holding out a forepaw, to hold hers in proper greeting, or perhaps to brush the whisper of a kiss over her knuckles (the more continental fashion). She took the lead, opening her arms wide and, smiling at me, asking, "Permission to hug?"

"Now and always," I offered in return, finding myself gripped firmly and warmly, with a bit of side-to-side wiggle that was a pleasant surprise. I returned the hug with as much strength as she'd shown me, and it seemed to be quite welcome. When she released me, she gave me a teasing smile.

"So that's why they call it a bear hug," she chuckled softly.

"The best kind," Aleksandr said. The brothers had finally finished their tussling match of greeting.

"I'll be the judge of that," the tawny sibling said, grinning and proceeding to give me quite the squeeze. I did my best to return it, and I felt him ease off slightly, perhaps thinking (quite correctly) that I wasn't as used to wrestling as was his brother.

"Dmitri, I presume?"

"Presume all you wish!" He pulled back, holding me by the shoulders and grinning at me. "I'm so glad to meet you, Tristan. I've heard all the stories. The good ones."

"I'm sure there'll be time enough to hear the bad ones."

"No such thing," Aleksandr said. Head and shoulders taller than the young lioness, he hugged Lorita with the familiarity of family. I was still uncertain enough to be wary of calling myself "family" just yet, but the warm greetings were definitely a good sign.

_"Dobro pozhalovat' v nash dom!"_boomed a voice from behind us.

We all turned to see the patriarch of the family in the archway of the living room, his arms spread wide, a huge grin on his face. Although as casually dressed as the rest of us, he still took points for style by not being in mere athletic-type gear. His trousers were loose-fitting wine-colored corduroy, his shirt simple dusty-rose cotton, but around his neck, the most amazing Ded Moroz shawl that I could imagine. His mane, long and full like Aleksandr's but tawny like Dmitri's, had been brushed and tended to a magnificent sheen of sandy brown. The way that he advanced on me, I had little option but to open my arms wide and accept what became a hearty back-slapping hug.

"Welcome, Tristan," he boomed just a bit more softly, a slightly deeper baritone than Aleksandr but with similar timbre. "I'm so glad to meet you at last. Please, call me Marsey."

"Spasibo, Marsey."

He pulled back from me a little, keeping his forepaws on my shoulders for a bit longer. "A ty govorish' po russki?"

"Ya starayus' izo vsekh sil."

The lion grinned, looking toward Aleksandr. "His accent is good, moy mladshiy. He will sound like all of us soon."

"Not quite all of us!" Lorita chuckled.

With a good-natured laugh all around, we settled into our places, the king and queen of the house on their modest domestic thrones, Dmitri and Lorita on the love seat (since Aleksandr and I needed the space of the sofa), and the whole getting-to-know-one-another process began. I already knew a few bits of background: Marsey was "semi-retired" from mechanical engineering, offering the occasional consulting assistance to his old firm and others; Kyra, an LPN with shorter hours these days, at a community clinic; Dmitri, using his charm and mildly intimidating size and stature to mediate disputes between labor and management as the union's rep; and the lovely Lorita working her way up at the local opera company's costume design department, describing herself as "a lowly seamstress with a few good ideas once in a while."

"Nonsense," Kyra insisted. "Who came up with those authentic costume designs for Tchaikovsky's_Queen of Spades?"_

"Actually, it was you," the younger lioness grinned. "I was but a humble messenger."

"Who made the costumes work," her husband added with a quick kiss to the side of her muzzle. "They appreciated it, and so did the audience."

I realized that I wasn't the only one in the room with self-esteem issues, but I managed to hold my tongue; my innate desire to empathize was tempered by the idea that, just maybe, it wasn't a good idea to highlight it in the conversation. It showed well enough anyway, when I was asked about my current writing project.

"Having survived another NaNoWriMo challenge..." I answered Kyra's quizzical look. "National Novel Writing Month. Every November, there is an international challenge to write at least 50,000 words in 30 days."

"And you have done this?" Marsey asked.

"I've made seven attempts, and I succeeded six of those times."

The assembled company looked impressed, and I blushed.

Chuckling softly, I added, "December is the real challenge, as I try to sort out if what I wrote is anything worth reading."

It was a tactical mistake to make such a comment while sitting next to Aleksandr. I jolted forward a little as the head-slap connected smartly.

"What my bear meant to say," he said with a grin, "is that one of the sayings about NaNoWriMo is, 'November is for writing; December is for editing.' So he's been taking the raw material and polishing it up."

"Yes," I returned, sticking my tongue out at him, "that's what I meant to say."

"I should try that on you," Dmitri smiled at Lorita.

"Mess up my headfur, and you'll pay for the manedresser's fees!"

"Three happy couples!" Marsey chuckled merrily. No one dared disagree.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After some chatting and the telling-stories-on-each-other bantering that families do, we adjourned to the table. Marsey gently removed the nutcracker to a shelf on the sideboard, clearing the view for us across the table. Marsey sat at the head (quite naturally), with Kyra opposite him and nearer to the kitchen. Aleks and I sat on one side, he nearer to Marsey, and Dmitri and Lorita across from us, again with the kit next to his Papa. The first course was soup, and Marsey expressed himself with a happy sigh as his bowl was set before him. My heart skipped a terrified beat when my eyes confirmed the sight: A thick, dark red liquid with a generous dollop of sour cream atop it, sprinkled with parsley. The next two bowls were set before the other two lions at the table, which I thought odd. Usually, etiquette would have guests served first, although I was glad of the delay. I might yet find a more delicate way of offending my hosts.

Kyra turned to me smiling. "Do you like borscht?"

Terrified of looking bad in front of Aleks' parents, I tried to keep a smile on my muzzle when I turned to him and asked, "May I try a taste of yours?"

My handsome lover gestured with a forepaw, and I took a clean spoon from my place to acquire an honest sample of the soup, tasting it. There was seasoning that I didn't recognize, but the primary ingredient -- beets -- seemed to overwhelm everything else, to my sadly prejudiced palate. I managed to keep my face set properly, saying, "I detect some interesting spices there, but I'm afraid that beets and my tastebuds have a longstanding feud."

"And how long," Aleks asked, with the most tender sarcasm, "have you been practicing that line?"

Lying seemed a lousy choice. "Somewhere about the time that you mentioned Kyra's most prized recipe." I looked to my hostess. "I hope I haven't offended."

"In spite of your not liking beets, you tried my borscht. That is tact, my young bear. Besides that, Lorita doesn't care for it either."

The two females had a gentle laugh at my expense, as Dmitri added, "We were raised on it, so we have the home court advantage."

Excusing herself briefly, the elder lioness moved back into the kitchen as the younger extended her forepaw to me. I clasped it gently as she said, "I did the same thing, although not quite so skillfully. I had to guard against spitting it back out."

"Beets are like coconut," Aleks grinned at me. "Ya love 'em or ya hate 'em."

Kyra returned with two steaming bowls, the first to Lorita, the second to me. The scent had come to me quickly, perhaps because I love a well-made chicken soup, and the presence of garlic, onion, and a bit of celery were easily identifiable. What surprised me were the small dumplings in the middle. "Won ton?"

"Matzo." Kyra grinned at me. "I got the recipe from a Jewish friend who assures me that good food knows no religion."

That got a laugh from me as she fetched her own bowl of borscht and we joined forepaws for a brief grace from the patriarch, in which he thanked the non-sapient animals for giving their lives to our nourishment, then expressing gratitude for having family together for a New Year's Day meal. No exceptions were made; I mentally kicked myself for thinking that there would be. I still retained that old and unfair mindset which claimed everything in the world was about some sort of point system that I could never understand and never score well on. It felt as if I were always being judged, like an emotional, societal, or karmic credit score that was never really good enough for me to get the approval that I needed. It was an image that I made up my mind to talk about with Aleks. I suspected that he'd have a few ideas about that feeling, including every intention of kicking it its arse.

Dinner continued slowly, through a few courses, as Aleks had told me it would. After the soup and some conversation (a few stories from my hosts about time in Russia, before they were able to emigrate to the States), dumplings called pelmeni were served, and they reminded me of Jewish kreplach. These were stuffed with a mixture of minced beef and pork; Kyra had been informed of my allergy to lamb, so she left it out of this batch. Served with sour cream, these dumplings were an absolute delight to my palate, and I said so from the first bite. The cerulean-furred lioness accepted my enthusiasm gratefully, as my sweet lover pet my hindpaw with his, out of sight of the others. I wondered if my blush (which felt red-hot on my cheeks) could be seen more easily.

A bit more general conversation (including some backstage stories from Lorita and a few tales from my reading to yowens at the local library), and then came a familiar yet very different dish. Between them, Kyra and Marsey provided a lesson in the history of Russian aristocracy (prior to the early 20th century), and how much the aristocrats loved the French and French cuisine. In fact, during the reign of Catherine the Great, French was the language of the Court. Beef Stroganoff was created in the mid-19th century, by a French chef working for the powerful Stroganov family; the Russian word for the dish was taken from the French word Buf and the family name of Stroganov, made into the sounds represented by the Cyrillic alphabet. (Marsey wrote it out for me as ?????????????. It's helping me recognize the sounds of the Cyrillic alphabet, in the same way that the famous writer ??????????????? helps me to recognize Aleksandr's name.) Although I had made my own versions of it in my day, Kyra's was far superior. Where I often used egg noodles, she paired the dish with kasha, a porridge made with buckwheat. I'd had buckwheat pancakes before, but this version was (of course) not sweet. The closest I could compare it with would be wild rice, this dish with a texture more like steel-cut oats that are allowed to be kept firm rather than overcooked. The combination fascinated my ursine teeth, the spices played well with my palate, and I loved every bite.

I wasn't at all sure that I could withstand dessert, after such a hearty meal and such wide-ranging conversation. What followed, however, made me wonder if dessert, even if so soon after so much delicious food, wouldn't have been preferable. Leaning back in his chair at the head of the table, Marsey looked across to his lovely mate and smiled a particularly knowing smile.

"Shall we?" he asked her.

"It might do to wait a bit for the blini," she agreed.

At that moment, Lorita put a forepaw to the lioness' arm and said, "Let me." When Kyra nodded, the younger lioness turned to me with a gentle smile and began.

"Tristan, I want you tell you about my first dinner with the family, when Dmitri and I were growing serious about our relationship. There are many jokes about 'meeting the 'rents,' as I'm sure you know."

I nodded, trying not to shift guiltily in my chair.

"On that evening, I went through an interesting sort of..." She chuckled, casting quick apologetic glances to the others around the table. "I can't resist using the word 'interview'; sorry about that." Looking back at me, she continued. "I was seated in the guest room as Marsey, Kyra, and Aleks came in, one at a time, to ask me a question, privately. I promise you, I wasn't grilled like a criminal."

"And rubber hoses would be way too kinky," Aleks grinned. His older brother gave him a proper raspberry for that remark.

"Each of them had a question of me, something that we would share just between us, for at least a little while." The lioness beamed at her in-laws. "I think everyone knows all, by this point."

"It's just that we've met you as a group, rather than individually," Kyra said to me. "A little one-on-one time is a more personal touch, and it gives us each a moment to make a direct connection."

"This time," Lorita chuckled, "I get to be a questioner."

My lover put a forepaw to my shoulder. "Are you okay with this? I don't want it to be an unwelcome surprise."

Breathing in slowly, I nodded, looking around the table. "I think I can get away with this comment: My brain is wired a little weirdly." I offered a self-deprecating smile, and I waited to see if my lion's forepaw would give me a smack. It didn't. "I get awkward when I meet new people, and Aleks is taking care of me by asking. It's one more reason why I love him... in case that's one of the questions."

Chuckles around the table were accented by Dmitri's comment of, "I think we've figured out that part."

"It's actually a very good idea," I admitted. "If you can forgive a bit of awkwardness on my part, I'd be glad to."

"Tristan." Marsey's deep rumble softened into something tender. "This is not an entrance test or an examination of your visa papers. I feel strongly that you are already family. We have shared much today, and this is just a little more, in a private setting. Nepravil'nykh otvetov net."

I looked hopefully to Aleks, then to Dmitri, who both merely smiled at me. Finally, Kyra said, "When we all come back for dessert, we will tell you what it means."

With a sigh, I said, "I see that I'm going to have to step up my studies."

...to be continued