Welcome to Thanksgiving dinner at my house.
Please ignore the sounds coming from the dryer in the garage. Those sounds are NOT due to my having forgot to defrost the turkey until this morning. It is a rare recording of tribal drumming from an almost-extinct tribe from New Guinea. Pay no attention to my husband or the kids who say it isn't. What do THEY know about tribal drumming? The turkey....er....tribal drumming will be over in a couple of hours.
This year we are honored by the presence of our exchange student, Yarik Timur, from Khazakstan. He's a bit confused about what this is all about, but he has brought some kumis and kazy to share. He assures us that while the delicious Kazakstanian eggnog and sausage is usually made with mare's milk and horsemeat, he has adapted the recipe to cow's milk and beef, but a few horses have disappeared since the Khazakstanis got to town. Be advised.
Our great-niece, Drucinda, has whole-heartedly embraced Veganism recently and is refusing to sit at "The Table of Death" this year. She will be having her meal in the garage. I told her to stay as far away from the dryer as possible. She wanders around muttering until Uncle Bob tells her to stuff a rutabaga in it.
My sister-in-law will be bringing her "famous" Spam-and-lima-bean-casserole for the 17th year and for the 17th year, nobody will eat it. She will swear that she'll never bring it again because nobody appreciates the effort she puts into cooking. She'll bring it next year. Nobody will eat it then, either.
My daughter will make turkey pizza for the kids because that's all they'll eat. They won't eat the turkey pizza. They want chicken nuggets, which they hated last week. AND they want them on blue plates, not the yellow ones.
Uncle Bob and Aunt Rose will be here. She'll bring a Jello mold. To this day, nobody knows what's in it, because it's never been cut. Aunt Rose won't notice because she'll be three sheets to the wind before the deviled eggs are gone.
The annual argument over whether cranberry sauce has to be full-bean or jellied will ensure on schedule. I will serve both, but everyone enjoys the argument. When they finish with that, they set in on whether or not candied yams need mini marshmallows.
The other argument will, of course, be over politics. Even though it was agreed that politics will NOT be discussed at the table, politics ARE discussed at the table. Cousin Joe gets up, takes his plate and says he'll just eat out in the garage with "that plant-loving nutcase out there". Two minutes later, he's back. She doesn't agree with his politics, either.
Immediately after the meal, Uncle Bob will announce that he's having a heart attack. He's had a "heart attack" for the last 12 years and it's always turned out to be indigestion, but Thanksgiving wouldn't be complete without the ritual visit to the ER. We always take one of the pies along to give to the nurses there who have to work on Thanksgiving. They have the paper plates and forks ready when we get there.
We'll get back in time for the football rivalry. Symbolic blood will flow. Somebody will stomp off mad. The kids are watching The Wizard of Oz in the basement. The smallest one gets scared by the Flying Monkeys and pees on the couch.
Drucinda and Yarik (who brought more than the kumis and kazy along) are sitting out on the swings in the back yard smoking the other national product of Kazakstan. Drucinda is happy because, well, it's plant-based. Yarik is happy because he thinks if she gets mellow enough, she'll engage in a little bit of "hide the kazy". Unfortunately for Yarik, Drucinda bats for the other team.
After everyone has a nap (and Uncle Bob says that since he just had a heart attack, he needs the couch), it all starts over again.
