Aaah, Thanksgiving. That glorious time of year where families get together to chat, argue and gorge on a cornucopia of deliciousness. Every person thinks that they have the best Thanksgiving. I am no different. What my family lacks in numbers (the entire clan is only 11 strong), we make up for in tradition.
First off, I will never graduate to the adult table. No matter how old I get, I will always be amongst the youngest. Even when one of us has a baby, the adult table can only seat a certain number of people, so I’ll remain at the kids table. I’m like the huge kindergartener who was held back. Twice. To make matters worse, I don’t have the privileges of the kids table. I’m not cute enough to sneak bites of food before prayers, young enough to be excused from clean-up, or naïve enough to leave the table until everyone has finished eating.
Second, along with the mandatory turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes, we always include some random ethnic cuisine. For several years it was chow mein. More recently, we included tamales. I’m not sure what the Pilgrims and Indians would think of our smorgasbord of food, but I like to think they’d see us as trailblazers.
Third, without fail, my older sister will make stuffed olives. This grosses me out for a few reasons. 1) Shoving mashed potatoes into an olive does not make it a new meal. 2) I don’t like mixing foods together. Everything should be eaten separately. 3) Olives disgust me. The texture, the saltiness, the smell. They look to me like nostrils as if everyone’s nose at one point had two olives in it, and the doctor took them out to make breathing holes. (On a separate note, stay tuned for a post from Beth about my inevitable “sabbatical” to deal with serious mental health issues.)
I love spending time with my family on Thanksgiving. There’s nothing lovelier than eating a week’s worth of calories in one meal simply because you can and no one will judge you if you unbutton your pants to make yourself more comfortable.