Culture

shakes her head ferociously back and
forth, a bit of the potato flinging out of
her hair. She says in an overly sweet
voice how she could not even
imagine them helping when
they are guests in her house.
She flaps her dishtowel at
them playfully and tells them to
go sit in the living room while
she prepares some drinks for
them to enjoy. The relatives
breathe a silent sigh of relief
and leave the kitchen smiling to
join their husbands in the living
room.

After a couple afternoon
beers and glasses of wine,
the relatives hover anxiously
on the back porch waiting
for the call to dinner. The
grandfathers make comments
about their low blood sugar,
how they have not eaten all
day and they may pass out
from the lack of food. An aunt
is tipsy from drinking wine

on an empty stomach and is
leaning against the deck railing with a
dazed look on her face. The husband
is shaking slightly like an addict waiting
for his next fix. It has been hours since
anyone has seen the children. Finally,
the wife pokes her freshly showered
self out from the deck doors and says
in a slightly exhausted voice, “dinner is
served.”

The feeding frenzy that occurs next
can only be compared to a group of
sharks finding the last fish in the ocean
and fighting for rights to the meal.
Everyone from the largest beer-bellied
grandpa to the smallest cousin piles
their plate as high as the heavens (and
then some). They shovel the lusciously
prepared food into their mouths
without even tasting it. To an outsider
peering through the dining room
windows it would appear as though
the family was in the midst of an eating
contest with a milion dollar prize.
Within half an hour, the plates are
cleared from both the second and third
helpings. The men have undone their
belts and top buttons on their jeans,
while the women are secretly wishing
they had worn sweat pants instead of
their form fitting Sunday dresses. No
one says a word about their already
bursting bellies, because they know
that dessert comes up next.

Once the table has been cleared
of the now bare turkey carcass and
one lonely brussel sprout, the wife,
with dark circles under her eyes,

brings out the assortment of pies she

had warming in the oven; all different

varieties including scrumptious apple,

sweet cherry, and of course the
holiday favourite, pumpkin pie. The
grandmother comments on how lovely
they all look, and then innocently asks
the wife when on earth she found

the time to bake all of these. The wife
blushes as she recalls her trip to the
grocery store yesterday, and avoids
the question, passing a piece of apple
pie to her father-in-law, who mutters
something about the apples looking
mushy. The children begin to get
restless as the adults pick away at their
dessert. They begin to kick each other
under the table and throw scraps of
piecrust in every direction. When one
rogue piece hits a grandmother in the
forehead, the uncles stand up and
announce that is the sign that it is time
to go.

Hugs and kisses are exchanged at the
door as the family members all pull on
their now too small coats and say
over-enthusiastically how they

all need to get together
more often, how this
was so much fun,

and how sorry
they are that
they cannot
stay to helo
clean up. The
wife and
husband
watch

as their
relatives

waddle
to their i

Z

cars, the aunts and uncles hauling
their children who have fallen into a
sleep as deep as the pot of mashed

Thanksgiving, bringing out the best
IN family

dysfunction since
|863

potatoes. They wave once more as the
relatives reverse down the driveway
and away into the

night. The wife
closes the
front

door and sighs heavily. The husband

gives his wife a quick peck on the

cheek. “Great dinner, honey” he
mutters as he heads upstairs,
with their nearly comatose

children dragging behind
hi

m.

The wife wanders into

the kitchen to examine

the damage. Food is
smeared everywhere on
the countertops, the turkey
carcass is laying in the sink
like a fallen soldier, the half-
eaten pies are still on the
dining room table. The wife's
shoulders sag as she turns
around and flicks off the
light. She will deal with this
disaster tomorrow.

Once the wife has dragged
herself upstairs with her
last remaining amounts of
energy, she slips into her
comtiest pajamas, leaving
her food stained clothing in
a pile on the floor, and climbs into bed.
Her husband is snoring loudly with
the faint smell of turkey and
pumpkin pie still lingering
on his breath. Staring
up at the ceiling
the wite allows
herself a moment
of pleasure and
congratulates
herself on
surviving another
Thanksgiving. She
closes her eyes with a
faint smile on her face.
Then it hits her; Christmas
is just around the corner.

Andrew Knowlton | bonappetit.com