Thanksgiving: the battlefield of the bulge
Thanksgiving was always an enjoyable holiday, but it was always like a war because in a war, you have a series of constant battles. I couldn’t have lunch because we would eat around 3. I heard my stomach growling and it sounded as like exploding cannons . So, at first, I opened the fridge three times and my mom would scream, “shut the fridge!” There’s nothing new in there since you opened it three minutes ago, so the pacing would continue and my mom stood there like an armed guard at the gates.
I would walk outside and play touch football. Then our grandparents would drive up and I would give each one and hug and a kiss and wish them Happy Thanksgiving! I would continue playing for a while, and I would walk back into the house and discover that while I was outside, my mom would bring out appetizers: crackers, chips, carrots, celery and ranch dressing. She would put them in the dining room (the room that was off limits and only for decorations) and I would gingerly walk into the dining room and feel as though I were behind enemy lines.
Finally, we would eat. Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, yams. Then I would look around and hope to “reload” my plate with weapons of mass destruction.
After the meal, bodies are piled on sofas and the rest of the furniture and it looks like an explosion hit but the culprit was not the Russians; it was the Turkish. Not the people but the meat. The Turkey hypnotized us into a lethargic sleep, especially when there was a foxhole of piled pots, pans and dishes three feet high. My dad would look through the binoculars and tell us to stay down until mom and the grandmas started doing the dishes. My pants were ready to burst, ( battling the bulge).so I would run in my room and put on my sweatpants. I said to my brother, “cover me!”
Then I heard the most motivating words from my mom, and it was like the bugle playing when the planes took to the air: “who wants dessert?” I was still very full, but I figure I would be hungry as soon as she would put away the desserts, and the way my mom stored the food in the fridge, you practically needed a Swiss army knife, a box cutter and a blow torch to reopen everything.
Before I knew it, my grandparents would start leaving. And every time my Grandma Ann would yell at my Grandpa Pat and he would storm out of the house, get into the car, and rev the engine. We would all be thinking, “Is this the time he would leave her behind?” I am sure he would fantasize about it. Thankfully for us that never happened.
So, the war was over-, or was it? There was still one last battle and it would usually happen around 8 or 9 PM. After all, I haven’t eaten for a whole 20 minutes, but was it just in my head? Was I hungry? A cold Turkey and Cheese sandwich sounded so good. The food in the fridge probably felt safe there- at least until the next day. Would I risk getting caught? After all, it would usually take five minutes to unwrap everything. One year I was good and stayed away from the kitchen only to hear my dad open the aluminum foil and wax paper and cracking open a can of Mountain Dew. Oh well, sometimes you just must be an unsung hero in the battlefield of the bulge!
