Tables, Turkeys and Thank You's

Tom's Table or Lack Thereof

Two Turkeys - One Roasted in the Oven with Herbs & Butter



The Other cooked on the Grill w/a Cajun Rub

Well at least we had a table.  Not sure what my friend Tom ended up eating off of this past Thursday, but I’m sure he still managed to ask one of his seven sister-in-laws to pass the gravy.    Thaaat’s right, seven.   While I don’t have seven, my one and only sister can muster up a good gust of energy on her own.  My little brother is an attorney, need I say more?  But alas, my siblings and I didn’t sit at the same table this year.  Actually, there were a few players missing from the stage this year.   And I gotta say, those drama queens, and loud mouths, geezer and geeks, users and losers, and scene stealing freaks really add something to the gathering.  While the house was plentiful with family and friends this Thanksgiving holiday, none of us had any real issues to bring to the table. 

   Of course there was ample Jameson and ginger ale, wine and beer, but no one passed out, face down, in their Le Creuset crock of sautéed mushrooms.   Right there at the table.  We were fifteen minutes into the meal before anyone noticed.   Thank God there was only a small amount of clarified butter in that crock; otherwise Uncle Ron could’ve drowned.  At least according to Grandma Millie.  Who continued to go on and on about how she really didn’t want that drink.  I had wondered which one, since I had seen four different family members hand her glasses of wine with the most generous of pours.  Most entertaining that year was over-hearing my nephews cook up a plan to cinch the tube on her oxygen tank after the twenty-seventh announcement she made regarding her current air flow reading.  Really Grandma Millie, do we need to know you’re still holding at 83%?  The boys were curious about what a reading of 64% looked like.

    “Not enough to make her pass out, but let’s see if she gets more drunk with less air.”  The meanest of my cousin whispered.  Mind you, is the same cousin I caught wrapping one of my cats around the hose when he was about 7 years old.  At least he had learned his lesson and didn’t hide it in the freezer as he’d done when he was 5.  It took us forever to find that damn cat.  My sister had told everybody to quiet down, she could hear something.  I can still see her, frozen, shoulders hunched, only her eyes moving in quick sharp movements in all directions.  When she finally got everyone quiet, which took a fair amount of time, because no one listens to kids at these gatherings, sure enough we could hear the slightest “mew . . . mew.”   Now whenever there’s a missing pet, we all will undoubtedly look at Franklin accusingly.  “It wasn’t me this time!”  He’s sure to cry out.  But it is.  It’s always Franklin. 

     One year, when we were older another cousin arrived at the table as we were sitting down to eat.  She had in tow with her the biggest, hairiest biker dude I had ever seen.  They both wore leathers.  November in Las Vegas can still run temperatures in the 70’s.   Cousin Kari brought the “girls” to the party, as my dad likes to say.  Since it was indeed a particularly warm Thanksgiving, Kari opted out of wearing anything but a push-up bra under her black leather vest.  Needless to say the men at the table shuffled about, sliding over to make room for Kari and her attributes.  No effort was made for the big guy.  Probably because it appeared to be impossible to even make enough room for him.  Kari said they just stopped by say hello and grab a little bit of food since this was their third Thanksgiving dinner of the day.  And grab they did.  Kari made her way into Auntie’s kitchen returned to the table with some Tupperware and proceeded to load up.

    “Since we’re too full to eat anymore, I thought we would just make some to take home for tomorrow.  You don’t care do you Mom?

     Auntie sat speechless, still stunned that the daughter she had sent to charm school not 7 years ago was dressed in skin tight black pants, boobs out for a good airing and a massive man, who had yet to say anything beyond “Hey,” standing patiently by the door holding Kari’s helmet under his left arm.  The right hand never left his pocket, an insult to the men of our family.  Of course their appearance made for good fodder immediately after they left the house. 

    “Oh my Gawd!”  Exclaimed Aunt Joan.  “Roslyn how could you just sit there like that?”  Aunt Joan continued to fuel the fires of discussion regarding how disrespectful kids are now-a-days.  Grandpa Bernie emerged from his stint of silence to give a dissertation on how parents have turned into handiwipes afraid to give kids a good whipp’n because someone might turn them into the authorities.  We all waited to see if Grandpa was going to continue.  Really, none of us had heard him utter a word in days.  No one dare interrupt in case he returned to his personal Cone of Silence for another indeterminate amount of time.

     But that was nothing compared to the year Aunt Roslyn threatened Uncle Jim’s life.  Yup.  It was her first time hosting Thanksgiving for the entire family.  She had decided to give Grandma Millie a break that year, since Grandma was beginning to develop breathing problems.  To say nothing of the other problems she had going on.  Her husband Grandpa Antonio was still alive and kicking then.  Actually “kicking it” with every blond bombshell, (as he like to refer to them), that walked into his bar.  Grandpa Antonio took great pride in his Italian heritage and virility.  Grandma may have been slowing down, but not Grandpa.  He told us kids;

  “Your Grandma there was a real looker when she was young.  Yes she was.  But these days I enjoy looking in all directions.”  Did I mention Grandpa Antonio was a real classy guy?  My mom tried to talk Aunt Roslyn out of hosting that year since she was about 7 months pregnant with her third child.   “Whaat?  This isn’t my first pregnancy.  It’s not my first rodeo, (Roslyn had recently discovered country music), what’s a little hitchhiker in my belly gonna do?”

Well the little hitchhiker didn’t do anything but Auntie sure did.  I’m not sure what happened in the kitchen, because we kids were always scooted out.  I was playing Barbies with my girl cousins.  The boys had just joined in with their G.I. Joes.  So our play had turned into playing the Beatles.  Melody put her Midge doll wigs on the 2 of the Joes, so they looked like Ringo and George.  I was bummed because I was in love with Paul back then.  Suddenly we heard shouting; “If you don’t get out of here I’m gonna cut you!!”

We kids ran to the kitchen careful not to cross the threshold and actually end up in the kitchen.   Except for 4 year Blake, he went in.  There we saw Auntie Roslyn, her apron loose and hanging half off, making her look even more maniacal, holding a knife so big it extended past her swollen belly.  It was pointed right at Uncle Jim’s stomach.  The scene looked like something out of a gangster movie.   No one in the kitchen was moving.  But you should have seen the look of shock on Uncle Jim’s mom’s face. 

     “You’re not gonna cut my daddy!”  Yelled Kevin as he ran towards Uncle Jim grabbing onto Uncle’s leg with one hand, the other still holding Ringo.    

“I am sick of him yammering at me!  I'm here doing everything, (“What does she mean she’s doing everything?”  I heard some lady I didn’t know ask), working so hard to put together a nice dinner for the whole damn family!”  Fortunately Grandma Millie was still well and mobile enough to tell Aunt Roslyn Uncle Jim didn’t mean what he said as she slowly reached over and slid the knife from Auntie’s hand.  Both Grandpa’s had come in to see what the commotion was about and were escorted Uncle Jim out.  My mom walked over to Uncle Jim’s mom and told her Aunt Roslyn didn’t mean it.  It was just the hormones talking and the stress of her first Thanksgiving dinner.  “Well yes, but my Goodness.  We’re all here helping her.”  The unknown lady said as she and Mom sat Auntie down at the little table and poured her a glass of something.  Then Grandma Millie kicked everyone out of the kitchen, even the grownups, except for Aunt Roslyn.  My guess was that Auntie was really in for it.

Yes, its memories like these that make us feel thankful.  Thankful for family, friends and those years of reprieve in between.   Still, I look forward to creating memories for my kids to reminisce about.  And of course I hold to tradition by preparing foods my Grandmas, Grandpas and all my Aunties, Uncles and cousins would expect to see on the table.  At least I have one and of course I’m thankful for that too.