I have loved this time of year since I was just a tot, though the below picture of me -- from during the Thanksgiving celebration at our nursery school, I'm the back left, my sister is the bottom left in red, you can click for the larger version -- doesn't quite show that.
I can still remember how much my sister and I looked forward to waking up Thanksgiving morning, knowing mom had gotten up early and started working her magic on that glistening bird, to the smell of turkey in the oven. Ah, there is no smell like it, and we would wake up, talk to each other and just lay in bed for a while just smelling that smell. I swear we were more excited waking up that day than on Christmas morning. Sure, there were presents on Christmas, but... TURKEY.
We loved the holiday also because as soon as the dishes were cleared, it meant the beginning of the Christmas season (to us). Our family had our own Thanksgiving tradition -- from the time we were two or three til we moved out, we'd eat dinner, have dessert and the four of us would make our way into the family room where we'd pop in "A Christmas Story" (of course, it was the VHS version that we'd taped off TV years ago, so we'd have to deal with the commercials) and take a family nap. Ah, childhood.
Thanksgiving in our family was all mom right up until that movie and the nap, but that's not to say there weren't some memorable moments for the rest of us.
When my sister and I were little, we liked to sleep with the radio on. Not blaring, just softly. It actually started with my dad putting on classical music to help us sleep when we were really young. Eventually we grew out of it, but between Thanksgiving and Christmas, it was a must. There was nothing better than listening to a little Christmas tunage as we were nodding off. It made it feel like you were surrounded by the season, and we shared a room so when one of us was excited, we got the other one excited.
So we woke up like we did any Thanksgiving morning to the smell of turkey in the oven. We laid around talking about nothing but decided we'd get up after the song on was over. It was Adam Sandler's "The Thanksgiving Song," and of course at nine and 10 years old, it was hilarious (holy crap, I just looked that up... that song came out in 1993. I am frigging OLD.). So that was that, song got over and we went downstairs.
Fast forward to a couple hours later where Chrissy, my mom's "mini me," is helping her in the kitchen. She's being goofy and singing that song to her and my mom is laughing. Til she gets to THE line. The line that will forever live in infamy in our family. She said it, she said it WRONG, and it will forever be remembered. As she sang it:
"Wrap that turkey up in aluminum foil... my brother likes to masturBAKE with
baby oil..."
I was 10. I didn't know what it meant, but from the look on my mom's face, a) that wasn't the word, and b) although hilarious, it was NOT something we were supposed to know about. We knew it was bad, but we didn't know how bad. My mom was simultaneously horrifically embarrassed and hysterical, and of course -- rubbing it in, now that we knew it was something bad -- made her repeat it for my dad, and possibly grandparents over the phone. My sister just thought it was some method of cooking. I love you, Chrissy.
Then there was the year that I'd decided to get dressed for once -- sure the rest of my family was already at the table, turkey steaming away, waiting for me -- and thought that hey, that white turtleneck sweater would look nice. It was nice, not too formal, and nice and warm for the post-meal nap.
It WAS the perfect shirt until my dad passed me the rolls, that is. I reached over the table, my hand extended waiting for him to pass the plate, and got a whiff of something odd. What's that smell? Why am I getting so warm? I, in my 12-year old quest for carbs, had unknowingly lit my sleeve on fire over a lovely pumpkin-scented aromatherapy candle on the table. I watched as the gravy-filled smiles on my family's faces turned to "Oh shit! Shit! You're on... you're on FIRE! Amy, your sleeve is on FIRE!" horror.
It all turned out fine. I blew out the small flame, which had turned the sleeve of my elegant white turtleneck black, and carried on with my meal. Change? Why change? Can't let the flamey bastards get you down.
The other reason Chrissy and I looked forward to the holiday was the booze. See, our parents would give us a little wine with our meals. They didn't force it on us (they didn't have to), and you could just have Diet Coke if you wanted it. But hell no, if given the opportunity, this six- and eight-year old likes thems a glass of wine (and by "glass," I mean little more than half an actual glass. It was just enough to feel like a grown up).
We looked forward to it, and no matter how bad it tasted when we were that age, we knew it could come with a little buzz. Turkey and a buzz -- what's not to like, for any adolescent? (And you should have seen the cats!)
So one year we got our usual half glass of wine, ate dinner, had dessert and were taking our "waiting for mom to put all the food away and wash the dishes" break -- what awesome kids and husband my mom has -- before the movie went in. Dad was already nodding off on the couch, I was probably stealing desserts PUMPKINPIE but Chrissy was no where to be found. Til maybe 10 or so minutes later, that is, when we found her sitting on the toilet singing to herself.
While "helping mom clear the table," she'd been finishing everyone else's unfinished glasses of wine and had herself a pretty good little buzz going on.
Ah, the memories.
It's been a while since we were ALL together for Thanksgiving. Now that Chrissy and I are married, John and I have our own home and Chrissy lives in Georgia, we don't generally eat together anymore.
This is the first year that I'll be cooking -- it's just the two of us (as much as I wouldn't mind getting a bit of tryptophan pumping through the little guy's veins), so we just have a small turkey. It's even better that we found a small turkey since my husband doesn't eat turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, vegetables or pie (read: weirdo), and I've never cooked one before. At least that way, if I make a grave roasting error, it's between me, him and the oven (crap, I have to clean it now).
My sister and I have tons of memories with our parents for Thanksgiving, and we do get a little bummed that we aren't together for that day. But you know, that's okay. While we will never forget the Thanksgivings of past years (couldn't if we wanted to, we've told too many people these stories), it's time to make new memories with our own families now.
Where ever you're going, whatever you're doing, whatever you're eating (JOHN), I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving and end the day with a full belly.
If you have any leftovers, send them my way. Unless it's wine -- that's all Chrissy.
0 comments:
Post a Comment