One year, my curmudgeon of a BIL drew my name. He's naturally bossy and gruff and older than me, and when he drew my name, he shouted into the phone: "Cash!"
Nope, not gonna happen if I can help it.
They'd been to our house over the previous summer, and while here, ate at a local pizza joint that he loved - and he doesn't love anything. I mean to say, he even told me himself, I didn't have to hear it roundabout fashion, that he really liked that pizza.
I went into the pizzeria, hoping that maybe they shipped pizzas. They didn't, but they did the next best thing, they sold kits. Yep, everything you need to make a reasonable facsimile of their pizza ate home.
So that's what I got him, a three-12"-pizza kit.
Christmas Day, and we did the usual thing of calling family, and when we called them, my wife asked where Lonnie was, because he wasn't audible on the phone.
Both girls squealed, "He's makin' pizza!" Their mom confirmed it, Lonnie was indeed in the kitchen, making pizza.
This is a guy who probably didn't know where the kitchen even was in his house, and who certainly had no idea how to work an oven, but he was in the kitchen, making pizza, and insisting that he do it himself, apparently.
That was probably 13 or 14 years ago, and it still comes up on that side of the family: "Remember that time Reuben got Dad those pizzas for Christmas, and Dad actually made pizza? That was awesome!"