Thanksgiving

Every year Thanksgiving usually begins with a call from my mother. She calls my sister and I about a week before the holiday. “What are you bringing to eat? What time are you coming? Who is bringing what?” my mother always asks. We have long, drawn out conversations about recipes, particularly deserts. Desert has been the hardest task for the past two years due to my father’s recent diabetes diagnosis. We are always trying to find new recipes that we will all like so that dad can have his chocolate fix. Usually, I make him a sugar-free chocolate silk pie with shavings of real chocolate on top. He, like my brother and I, is a huge chocoholic. We will have a set time, usually 2:00 for dinner, however this means nothing. I will arrive at the appointed time but, my sister is always late. She is always bringing an important ingredient that completely stalls dinner preparation until she gets there. My mom fusses about how we were supposed to eat at 2:00 but, it is now 3:00 and the turkey isn’t done yet. By now, we have prepared yams with marshmallows on top, fresh green beans from the garden, heaps of mashed potatoes with lots of butter, homemade yeast rolls, broccoli casserole, and my delicious stuffing. I make the stuffing from scratch every year. I like the recipe because it calls for homemade cornbread and sage breakfast sausage. My brother, Jason has a traditional recipe as well. He always makes his favorite pie, chocolate pecan. It must be made entirely from scratch. No artificial ingredients for him, oh no! Did you know that margarine is only one little molecule away from being plastic?! The ingredients for his chocolate pecan pie are always top of the line and he works so hard to make it perfect even though he is usually the only one that eats it. We allow him his wild ranting, the same ranting every year, by the way. Thanksgiving day, he sweeps into the kitchen where the ladies of the family are gathered, banging pots and pans, spoons and bowls. He is an unorganized flurry of excitement, ego, and purpose. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his favorite and most important pie ingredient, bourbon. It is always Jack Daniels because it’s the best. He brandishes it around as if it is a trophy he has just been awarded, loudly exclaiming the good qualities of a well brewed bourbon. Meticulously, he measures out his ingredients and prepares his pie for the oven, placing on top the toasted pecans, cinnamon, and brown sugar. The spicy aroma reaches our nostrils and reminds us of holidays past. He puts the pie in the oven, sets the timer and we will not see him again until dinner time. After bragging about how wonderfully he made his pie, he saunters into the living room and cops a squat on the couch beside our dad. What is Thanksgiving without football? It would be pleasant indeed, I say! As the game starts, the television volume increases to a cacophony of hideous noise blaring into the kitchen. We ladies must now raise our voices in order to be heard over the noise and the two men cheering along the sidelines of our living room. One would think that a single football game would be sufficient for only two men but, oh no. Every television in the house, both upstairs and down, are blaring, each with a different football game displayed. Let’s not forget the radio in the garage! How many football games are on at one time, you ask? Apparently not enough because my dad and my brother seem to want to talk about other football games, future or past, while watching or listening to at least four games at one time. I will hear my mom tell them several times throughout the day and evening to, “Turn that shit down!” She is always ignored as there is always an event on the screen that demands their total attention. So continues our Thanksgiving tradition. My mom and sister will begin setting the table as I make the turkey gravy. I will bicker and complain about how things are cooked. “Common sense is dead,” I often say. For that, I have earned the title of “Kitchen Nazi.” I do not find this amusing at all, however, my family finds it hilarious. The eight of us will finally say a prayer of thanks and begin gorging ourselves on food enough for twenty people. The men retire to the living room to await the ladies. This is the clincher. While the men are on the couch watching television, savoring their recent feast, we ladies are stuck cleaning up the mess. It takes forever. After cleaning and gossiping, we all gather in the living room and snuggle down with each other. We have pie and cake and begin to talk about scenes from the movie, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. A movie we have watched every year on Thanksgiving Day. It is nice for the family to sit and enjoy a calming activity together. We all laugh and poke fun at each other as we watch a movie that makes us roll with laughter even though we have seen it at least ten times. After the movie we all say our good-byes and gathering my things, I trudge to my car and make the short drive home. Home, home, home at last.