We all have our own special Thanksgiving memories. Mine tend to be somewhat odd, if not a bit silly. And those are the best ones.
My wife’s first Turkey Day with the Pricketts comes to mind. It was from that day that we’ll forever be referred to as The Loud Family. Safe to say we reinforce one or more New Jersey stereotypes. After about two hours of raucous cacophony, I noticed my dear bride was nowhere to be found. I finally discovered her upstairs, gently rocking with her head wedged between two pillows. Priceless!
Then there was the time we all stayed at my sister’s house. This inconvenience was particularly distressing to her husband, who stifled his frustration until he took on the chore of mashing the potatoes. Those poor spuds never stood a chance. Luke whipped them into vichychoisse soup before anyone could intervene. I’ve never quite looked at potatoes the same. I feel kinda bad for them now.
My childhood memories are a bit more vague, but to this day, I will not sit down to the blessed feast without candied sweet potatoes (untouched by Luke), creamed pearl onions, and mincemeat pie for dessert. And, dammit, I like a little slice of toasted fruitcake with my coffee! It just goes to show, a kid can be taught to eat most anything. It kind of makes me glad I wasn’t brought up Scottish. Haggis and turnips again?
We’ve got a pretty full house this year, an interesting cast of characters to be sure. As long as politics or body-piercing don’t come up at the dinner table, it’ll probably be a somewhat civil celebration. Of course, that’s what I said right before The Great Turkey Day Tater Slaughter of 1995.