With the last bit of sunlight still looming over the horizon, eager trick or treaters everywhere were faced with one last obstacle before taking on the night: Halloween Dinner. It was the one sacrifice we each needed to make to assure our parents that we would at least try to consume something with even the slightest hint of nutritional value before gorging ourselves on nothing but candy. For me this was Halloween’s greatest trick. A nightmare inducing, slow paced, monotonous waste of time where I was forced to consume vegetables against my will. Each minute I spent trapped at the table felt like an eternity.

Every mouthful of food I took in seemed to take longer to chew than the last. I could hear the slow ticking of the kitchen clock echoing in my brain as I reluctantly lowered my fork for more. “How many bites?” I would ask impatiently.

My mother, not one for games, would usually just sigh. For years this was our continued back and forth, an almost choreographed dance if you will. My mother eventually grew tired of fighting me and opted instead to bring in the big guns: my Nana. My Nana was a tough cookie who ran a tight ship. She didn’t take kindly to nonsense of any kind especially during dinner. This, my mother thought, was the perfect solution for our Halloween dinner fiascos. Personally I was in favor of later dinners, post trick or treating, when my adrenaline would have started to subside, but I was overruled. My grandmother’s first dinner as executive chef went no better than my mother’s had previously. Once again I sat reluctantly poking at my food counting down the seconds until I could free myself. My grandmother, undeterred, decided that for her second Halloween she would try something altogether different. Maybe, as it was All Hallows Eve, she could bend her own rules just once to make her dinner a tad more festive. Of course also knowing that I had a strange love for the macabre gave her a few new wicked ideas. Much to my mother’s horror, and my sheer delight, my grandmother turned Halloween dinner on its ear. What was once just an average supper on an anything but average night soon became a meal fit for a demon king. To start my grandmother carefully crafted miniature decapitated hot dog fingers served in a pool of ketchup blood. That alone was magnificent, but she didn’t stop there.

For our second course we were served a platter of deviled egg eyeballs with green olive pupils.

I’m not usually a fan of eggs, but these I giddily swallowed whole. My mother however found it harder to eat. This I found to be deeply amusing, but I kept it to myself. For her third and final course, my Nana saved the best for last. In carefully carved skeleton bread bowls my grandmother had prepared an American Chopped Suey brain served in a rich tomato blood sauce. By keeping the noodles slightly undercooked she was able to sculpt them into an almost disturbingly realistic brain shape.

My mother looked as if she was going to be sick, but I for one was ready to dig in. This was the first Halloween I can remember where I was actually sad to see dinner come to a close. My mother was thrilled, albeit still slightly disturbed, and decided from that point on my grandmother would be in charge of all future Halloween dinners. I for one did not object.