Next, I rub the turkey down with butter and spices, stuff it with onions, carrots, and celery, wrap it up in aluminum, and place it in the oven. With that behind me, I begin the chopping, baking, slicing, stirring, dicing, whipping, screaming, straining, topping, hooting, cutting, hollering, beating, and gnashing of teeth for all the other fifty-seven dishes, and the relatives slowly trickle in through my front door.
All day while the turkey roasts, beans simmer, bread rises, pies bake, and salads chill, I run reconnaissance missions through the house rescuing abandoned cups and refereeing the kids as they squabble over who gets possession of the remote. All women must cook, clean, and tend to children while the men congregate in front of the TV and argue over Auburn and Georgia football and who gets possession of the remote.
About thirty minutes before suppertime, I proudly watch the little popper-thingie jump up on the turkey. Carving the turkey, I discover the meat is tough and, horror of horrors, it's still raw. Apparently Aunt Martha turned down the oven temperature because, "You wuz cookin' it all wrong, child."
After zapping the turkey in the microwave, I load the table with casseroles, salads, meats, breads, vegetables, dressing, and other various foodstuffs, then whistle for everyone to circle in for the prayer.
With half of my holiday chores behind me, I want to relax, but I know that the meal itself will present many challenges. It never fails while Grandpa is praying his once-a-year-twenty-minute-oh-Lord-thankee-so-much-for-brangin'-us-together-and-keeping-us-all-reg'ler prayer, the kids will loudly whisper that so-and-so had their eyes open. This of course derails Grandpa's train of thought, so he starts his oh-where-wuz-I-oh-yeah-thankee-so-much-for-brangin'-us-together... prayer all over again. I silently pray that the turkey is cooked enough so that I won't have my own turkey tale following me for a decade (or two).
After the 'Amens' are finally said, Aunt Martha complains about the dry turkey, mayonnaisey slaw, and lumpy potatoes. She also points out that she used to serve dinner on REAL China, (not paper plates). No one is brave enough to point out that the last time she cooked was when Nixon was in office. Besides, nobody can get a word in edgewise because she already changed the subject to an in-depth description of Aunt Bet's hemorrhoid surgery.
I always end up sitting next to Grandpa and hearing him smack his food, clink the fork with his teeth, grease up the salt shaker, and slurp his sweet tea. Of course, this is nothing compared to the horror of having to sit at the kid's table. Dinner topics usually include descriptions of initiating the Great Flatus Offensive against unsuspecting relatives, wedgies, picking noses, and a tuneful underarm rendition of Jingle Bells.
The end of the meal isn't safe either, because the Dessert Police is out in full force making sure that everyone sample ALL the desserts (we don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, now, do we?).
When the meal is over, Aunt Martha stands guard near the sink insisting that you keep every last bone, carrot, and cranberry - just in case. The fridge is packed so full that I have to put duct tape on the door to keep it shut.
After the last bit of turkey is eaten and Grandpa finally pries his hindquarters from my Ben-Gay-smelling recliner, I can celebrate the end of Thanksgiving and the end of November. Of course, when I hope to recuperate with the fun and goofiness of winter, a smiling Santa at the drug store forewarns me that Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and New Year's are JUST around the corner.
