“Ruby has never met a dance floor she couldn’t conquer,” I say, trying not to trip over my own feet as we navigate a turn. “Or a family gathering she couldn’t scandalize.”
The music shifts to something more upbeat, and suddenly the dancing becomes lessromantic swayingand morecoordinated chaos, requiring actual skill. Couples begin attempting moves that look like they require degrees in anatomy, while children dart between our legs like sugar-fueled obstacles in an already complicated navigation situation.
“Follow my lead,” Koa says, deciding this is the perfect moment to test my ability to process complex instructions while not falling down.
“That’s optimistic,” I reply, but I gamely attempt to follow his movements as he guides me through what might be actual hula moves or might be elaborate interpretive dance about the lifecycle of tropical fruit.
Everything goes smoothly until the moment when nature decides to provide its own entertainment in the form of a rooster with attitude problems and a cat with poor timing.
The rooster—a magnificent red specimen with feathers that catch the string lights like copper fire—takes offense to Princess the feisty feline walking too close to what he considers his personal territory near the dessert table. He launches into full attack mode with his wings spread, and makes sounds that could wake the dead across three time zones.
Princess, being a cat with excellent survival instincts and zero tolerance for poultry-based aggression, bolts across the dance area like a furry lightning bolt seeking refuge. The rooster follows in hot pursuit, committed to this territorial dispute regardless of the innocent bystanders in the flight path. In fact, Koa and I seem to be standing right in their direct line of fire.
“Geez,” we shout in unison as we jump apart like a couple of teenagers caught necking on the front porch.
And while I try to sidestep the incoming wildlife drama while maintaining some semblance of dance coordination, my feet tangle in a way that defies both gravity and good judgment. I windmill backward with my arms flailing like a person attempting to fly through sheer determination, heading straight toward the buffet table with the inevitability of a tropical storm making landfall.
“Jinx, look out!” both Lani and Ruby shout fromsomewhere behind me, but I can’t seem to stop the inertia taking over my body.
Koa tries to snatch me by the arm, but I’ve already skittered off, and soon an entire wall of bodies fills in between us.
A giant poi bowl—a massive wooden vessel filled with enough of the traditional Hawaiian staple to feed half the island—sits directly in my trajectory like Murphy’s Law decided to take physical form.
“Jinx,” Koa shouts as he fights his way through the crowd, but it’s too late. All I see is purple.
I land face-first in the poi with a splash that sends the traditional Hawaiian treat flying in every direction, covering myself, the table, and approximately sixty family members in what looks like edible lavender cement. The impact creates a poi explosion that would make volcanic eruptions look understated, while I sit in the bowl like a very surprised tourist who’s just been baptized in the island cuisine.
I do my best to extract myself from the mess, causing the table to tip over, and it sends the bowl into the night sky.
The rooster, satisfied that he’s successfully defended his territory through strategic chaos deployment, struts away like a victor claiming his spoils. Princess emerges from under a chair with her tail swishing with satisfaction, because she just proved that humans are fundamentally ridiculous.
The poi bowl flips mid-air, and in an effort not to be bonked on the head with it, I trip over my own feet yet again.It lands on the ground with a thud, and I land right in it with my bottom planted in the leftover squishy gruel.
For a moment, silence blankets the compound just like the poi is blanketing everything within a six-foot radius of the dessert table. Every eye zeroes in on me sitting on ground zero, covered in purple poi like some kind of cursed dessert.
Koa and his mother land before me at the very same time.
“Jinx,” Koa huffs in horror as he tries to take it all in.
But his mother has a very different reaction. Linda Hale begins to laugh—a deep, genuine laughter that comes from someone who’s just witnessed the most perfect introduction to family chaos in Hawaiian history. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Oh, Jinx, I’m sorry,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes while the crowd gathers, most of which have their phones poised my way, “I guess we know you’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty.”
“Or her entire body,” Ruby adds helpfully.
Koa extends a hand my way. “Let’s get you out of there.”
“I think we’re going to need a ladder,” I say, as my fingers slip through his. “And possibly a hazmat shower.”
“This is perfect!” Ruby announces while wrapped around one of the uncles like a tropical vine. “You’ve been officially initiated into the family through traditional food immersion!”
“Is that a real tradition?” I ask, as Koa finally manages to extract me from my poi prison.
“It is now,” Linda declares with the authority of a woman who makes family traditions on the spot. “Anyone brave enough to take a poi bath while being chased by livestock is officially ohana.”
The crowd cheers. Koa offers me a peck on the lips, and judging by the smile he’s fighting, I can tell he’s more than amused.
The cleanup process involves garden hoses, industrial-strength soap, and enough laughter and screams to power the twinkle lights. By the time I’m mostly poi-free and wearing a borrowed muumuu that makes me look like a walking tropical garden, the family has already started planning my official adoption ceremony and discussing whether the poi bowl should be retired as a family heirloom. I vote yes.
