Family Gobble

Thanksgiving is a holiday I dread. It just seems to be a hotbed of dysfunction and a recipe for disaster. Like Uncle Burt asking people to pull his finger in between inappropriate off color and mostly unfunny jokes. As a kid, I giggled and reveled in the somewhat forbidden nature. But now it’s just a dated and pitiful cry for attention.

And then there’s the trio of aunts who relentlessly interrogate about my love life with the precision of stalag guards.

“Are you seeing anyone? When are you getting married? Don’t you want to have children?”

Even if I wanted to answer, I can’t even take a breath to interject between their rapidfire, Tommy-gun succession of questions.

And finally my annoying brother and sister-in-law who parade their Von Trapp family brood around extolling their many accomplishments lauded in my face like a billboard.

That’s why I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving in three years. But after my grandma and grandpa passed this year only months apart, we all agreed to gather together in their memory. At least, that’s the way my mother put it when she phoned me. It was mandatory attendance. Practically a required command performance.

Going through the front door, I hold my breath, knowing everybody would already be there. I hear rumblings in the living room, so I head through the dining room to the kitchen.

I can smell the wafting aroma of turkey and fixins immediately fill the room. That was the best thing about Thanksgiving.

Mom decked out the dining room in the finest linens, china and crystal glasses that she received as a wedding presents and the sterling silver she inherited from her grandmother.

But something is different. Placed on each plate is a paper scroll wrapped in a gold ribbon. I’m curious, but the sweet sense of the upcoming meal draws me into the kitchen like bait with a hook.

There is mom seemingly stirring two pots at the same time, surrounded by bowls, plates, pots and pans, concocting her annual delicacy. She is in her element. She loved cooking and welcomed every opportunity to cook for her family.

I sneak up behind her, trying to grab a taste and laughs as she smacks my hand away.

“Not ready for eating yet,” she laughs and hugs me.

“Say, what’s the deal with the papers on the plates in the dining room?” I ask curiously.

“That’s for me to know and you find out. Just like this turkey, everything in its own time.” She shoots me a cheeky smile.

Then I see my trio aunts rolling in like the opening witch cauldron scene in Macbeth and grab a glass of wine and quickly make my escape through the other door.

As I carefully venture toward the living room, I can hear my uncle’s bawdy laugh all the way from the dining room and stop in my tracks. I can’t do it. Not yet.

So I sit at the dining table alone and sip my wine, remembering the good and bad moments echoed at this table. Then I stare at the scrolls, trying to unlock their secret through osmosis. Maybe it was a belated inheritance or the treasure map to a scavenger hunt?

Finally, everyone came in and sat down in front of the feast my mother and aunts prepared. Thank goodness they made my brother’s kids sit in the kitchen. It’s quieter.

As soon as everyone settles down, my mother stands at the head of the table.

“Now I know you’re all curious about the scrolls at the table. As you all know, we lost both grandma and grandpa this year. It was a horrible blow and started me thinking about Thanksgiving. Sometimes we give thanks, but mostly we talk about nothing important. Thanksgiving is after all about family, so this year I’m instituting a new tradition. It’s called The Family Gobble. As we gobble up this food, we’re going to gobble up information about our late grandma and grandpa to keep their memory alive at this table. Everybody open their scroll. I’ll start and then we’ll go around the table and read from each scroll. Mine says… Did you know grandpa was a radio operator on an aircraft carrier in WWII?”

Then she nodded to the person to her left and they read their paper.

“Did you that grandma trained as a ballet dancer?”

Then the next person read aloud.

“Grandma and grandpa were married on a canoe in Hawaii.”

And the next one.

“Grandpa played jazz trumpet”

On and on are salient pieces of information about my grandparents. Some I heard, some a surprise, but all were as interesting as listening to someone depicted on the Biography channel.

When they are all done, my mother nods and sits down.

“Everybody dig in and we’ll discuss each one of these and everyone will tell information about what they know, so we can piece together information and share with everyone. It will be like they are here with us.”

For the next two hours, no one discusses politics, religion or what movie they recently saw. And no one interrogates me about my life. It’s all about grandma and grandpa. My aunts, uncle and mother chime in interesting stories and throw in tidbits of information here and there. Some I heard before, but much of it is new information about the interesting lives my grandparents led, before I knew them. I’m intrigued, but mostly amazed that very often, my mother and her siblings didn’t agree about facts and events, making me wonder if their memory was going or if they’re just bad at remembering things. They say if you get 10 witnesses in the same place, they’ll all give you a different story about what they saw. Maybe that’s true with family memories too.

But the meal was pleasant. The food was plentiful and the conversation warm and inviting. I think this family gobble is a great idea. I hope my mother institutes it next year. Maybe I’ll come back after all.