I've never really understood why the holidays hold an embargo on particular dishes. Thanks to modern methods of Frankenfarming, it's possible to obtain the ingredients for green bean casserole, pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce at any point in Earth's annual orbit. It's not as if some celestial window opens up and renders these dishes intrinsically more delicious in the final 1/12th of the year or that the body cannot physically process mincemeat prior to November.

Likely, it's that "tradition" thing that folks and advertisers are so nutty about at this time of year, but I'm sticking by my pet theory that one of our culture's forefathers had a Great Aunt Mildred who insisted on bringing her Tuna-Jell-O Nut Fluff Surprise to each and every family gathering throughout the year and he figured out a clever way to if not end, then at least curtail the frequency.

One must toe a fine line with a Great Aunt Mildred. Of course, she must be made to feel as wholly engulfed in the embrace of her family's love as one of those chunks of tuna she mysteriously convinced to levitate in the cherry gelatin. Good gosh a mighty was it thoughtful of her to go to the trouble of shopping for the cashews and marshmallows, dig out the copper fish mold, haul the whole mess over and clear out a fridge shelf to house it. And yes, we live in the most truly abundant nation in all the land, and should be truly grateful for any foodstuffs with which we are blessed. But the truth of the matter is that at some point back in the early 90's, you somehow missed your cousin's elaborate "Avoid. AVOID!!!" semaphore gestures from across the room and took a big ol' rippling spoonful because Mildred was standing right there and you wanted to be polite. Unfortunately, this politesse left you doubled over in the little elves' room for the remainder of the holiday, and to this day, you can't see a Starkist commercial without lightly whimpering.

Solution: a "casserole allergy." My dear friend Pete the Mayo Hater long-ago developed this technique to shield himself from foodstuffs of dubiously creamy origins and has employed it ever since. It knocks people enough off guard that they just accept it at face value, but is suitably ambiguous to allow him helpings of dishes he actually enjoys ("Oh, uh, that's technically a frittata/soufflé/stew, so my doctor says it's okay.") Yup -- it's technically fibbing, but weigh that against bruising Mil's tender, well-meaning feelings or, heaven forfend, having to gag your way through a whole bowlful of fish jelly while making Rachael Ray-style yum-o sounds. And just be thankful that it's only once a year.