My father has a very competitive spirit.  Which is why last year, when it began to dawn on him that I might in fact be able to out-cook him with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back (yes, I have mastered the art of telepathic cooking.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.), he decided to abandon the decade-long lasagna Christmas dinner tradition.  And declared that he was going to be making manicotti.

There was an outcry, of course.  But he stood his ground and insisted that tradition be thrown to the wayside just so that he could one up me.  He really is just full of Christmas spirit.

But manicotti? you say.  Really?

Yes.  Really.  You see, real traditional manicotti is made not with pasta noodles but with super thin crepe-like pancakes.  That you have to make.  By hand.  One at a time.

Which he did.  For many hours.

I’m not sure that he truly realized what he was getting himself into that first year.  But he soldiered on, crepe by crepe, exclaiming all the while that every joint in his body ached and that his knees would never be the same again and that really, he only did these things because he loved us so much.  Each time, turning to give me the evil eye.  As if I had somehow brought this upon him.

Nope, dad.  This was all on you.

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