Tales from the kiddie table....
Thanksgiving approaches. Turkey and all the trimmings, and being forced to watch the Detroit Lions play football, which they’ve done every year on Thanksgiving day since 1934. Nobody quite knows why. They almost always lose, but this year the Lions are suddenly good, which could disrupt some dinners. Previous years the game was more like muzak in an elevator.
But let’s dig in, shall we?
My Mom cooked for a houseful. Various aunts and uncles and in-laws and potential future in-laws would start arriving in the early afternoon. My Dad’s Uncle Joe would sit in the chair closest to the door, dressed impeccably in a pressed white shirt and tie, nursing cans of Genny Cream Ale and puffing on his ever-present cigar. Everybody’s favorite Aunt sat across the way, smoking her Virginia Slim 120s, holding court with her infectious laugh. Us kids bounced around, tortured by the glorious smells coming of the the kitchen that we kept getting chased out of. My Mom was juggling dozens of things at once in there (including her legendary stuffing with raisins), while my Dad stood by with his carving knife, ready to slash at the bird when it was ready. When the house got really full the radiator cover doubled as a second couch. The living room vibrated with multiple conversations, and our dog Candy would try his luck at the feet of just about everybody, in search of the best belly rubs. Everything was as it should be.