For as much as I wanted to sleep in this morning, it just wasn’t going to happen. No, I didn’t want to wake up early in order to watch the Thanksgiving parade. My biological clock just happened to say, “it’s Thursday, get your fat ass out of bed!”
Not wanting to waste a lazy morning, I turned on the television and clicked through the 150+ channels of worthless dribble and settled on the Leave it to Beaver marathon on Me Tv.
As Hugh Beaumont, Barbara Billingsley, Tony Dow and Jerry Mathers engaged in dialogue that included “oh shucks,” “heck dad,” “yes father” and “girls are yucky,” I started to think about what Thanksgiving would be like in the Cleaver household.
Like the famous Normal Rockwell painting, Freedom from Want, the family would be gathered around the linen topped table, with the “good silver” placed perfectly on either side of the Sunday china, while father carved the bird as mother made sure everyone got enough to eat before she sat down and ate the scraps that were left. Phew!
The perfect family on television and in the painting are clearly fiction, as nobody has a Thanksgiving dinner like that, right?
Case in point – my Thanksgiving. Feel free to say, “this sounds just like my family” as I share what I envision my afternoon to be like based on previous holidays.
I’ll arrive at family homestead at the dictated time, 2pm. While I arrive on time, nobody else will, so I’ll sit around for at least an hour admiring the shag carpeting, the Sanitas wallpaper, the floral pattern furniture (minus the plastic covers) and wonder why nothing has changed in the house since 1972.
I’ll walk into the kitchen and pop open the harvest gold stove where the turkey has been cooking for far longer than it was ever meant to be and say, “I think it’s done.” Only to be told, “you have to make sure turkey is cooked good so you don’t get salmonella.”
I’ll question why the potatoes aren’t even cooked, yet alone mashed, and why the green beans – sans casserole – haven’t even been put on the stove yet. “It only takes a minute, why don’t you go sit down in the living room?”
Back to the room time forgot.
Suddenly the door opens and here comes my brother, his wife and their son to relieve my pain. “Are we ready to eat yet?” my brother yells as he heads to the dining room. “Not yet, the turkey is still in the oven.”
I’ll yell back, “for the love of God, please take the turkey out of the oven!”
Since I brought Baby the Chihuahua, my nephew will taunt her, she’ll bark, maybe even nip, while I’ll ask, “where’s the vodka?”
A bottle of Seagram’s from the late 70’s is the closest thing to alcohol and it has now turned into the kind you rub on a wound rather than mix with bitters and garnish with an olive.
I’ll settle for the bottle of water I brought from my house.
90-minutes past the original start time and we’re ready to sit down, even though one family member is still missing.
Like the Rockwell painting, the Sunday china is on the table but the “good silver” is tarnished rather than polished, so I’ll settle for a plastic knife and fork.
Laid out is the mashed potatoes that are cold, the stuffing which is more like a plate of onions, some concoction of sweet potatoes, the green beans that “only took a minute” and the turkey. As I reach for some white meat, the gravy is noticeably absent because, “gravy is no good for you.”
God forbid I should ask where the salt is.
Of course, the bird is dry, but I won’t say a word. I’ll just keep muttering something about how it needs gravy as I stare as the cylindrical red glob thats jiggling on a plate taunting me. “Can you pass the cranberry sauce?”
Throughout the course of the meal, Obama will be mentioned a few times, I’ll get yelled at for dropping the f-bomb unintentionally, someone will say the turkey is dry while someone else will say it isn’t and at least one person will say, “where is ______?”
As soon as the plates are cleared and dinner is over, where is _____ will walk in the door and say, “I thought you said 4 o-clock.” Arguments will ensue, nobody will want a piece of pie and “you have to have pie, what am I going to do with this Cool Whip?” will be uttered in a tone of disdain making everyone feel guilty for not partaking.
Having enough, it’s time to leave, but not without being asked at least eight times whether I want left overs then having to justify why I don’t want anything to take home.
The dog and I will retreat to Mercedes, turn on the satellite radio channel playing Christmas music and head back home. I’ll sing along to Mitch Miller, fantasize about having Thanksgiving with Barbara Billingsley and give thanks that I have at least another month before I have to do this all over again.
So, from Baby and me – may your turkey be moist, your giblets be warm and your dinner served on time. Happy Thanksgiving.