Thanksgiving Tradition: Xtreme Gluttony

Several decades ago Patty and I began sharing Turkey day with her parents, at their mountain home, along with Patty’s sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Dusty. Ordinarily the six of us were accompanied by a canine or two and a wonderful tradition was underway.

Over the years, a few new kids showed up; five in fact. Once in a while a stray friend or relative would join in, but the core group repeated that pattern or a reasonable facsimile of it nearly every year.

Patty’s parents actually built the home themselves, and they included a floor-to-ceiling moss-rock fireplace in the living room. We stuffed it with firewood from their own land, and enjoyed a most-comfy setting. Like most other families, we feasted to the belt-bustin’ stage. Throw in a few football games and all of that added up to my favorite holiday.

A typical meal would include a turkey the size of a VW bug, (see 22 footer) as well as all of the trimmin’s, which included several favorite family recopies, much like those at Serious Eats. Oh yeah, there was also two or three different pies and enough whip cream to fulfill all of the fantasies of every man woman and child on the planet. (Insert your fantasy in comments section below) Ah, the good ol’ days.

Naturally, that meal did not just materialize out of thin air. Somebody had to do a lot of work and I will admit that I did not quite do my fair share. Oh hell, let’s be honest here: The women did it all!!!... I just showed up and enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

As the family grew, so did the demands. Sometimes new dishes were introduced, and on other occasions the women just made more of the old favorites. Either way was fine with me. Once in a while I waddled over to the wood pile and retrieved a log to add to the fire, or I might have strained myself by changing channels on the TV from one game to another, but overall, I was one of several kings in that splendid little mountain home.

Eventually, some of the working-class folks came to their collective senses. I actually overheard one of the more boisterous complainers suggest that it would be nice to have a little extra help from some of the lazy people (who could that be?) who seemed to be unable to locate the kitchen when there was work to do. However, and fortunately for me, the kitchen in that humble home was not designed for a herd of cooks so the comment was more of a feigned complaint than a practical solution to a legitimate problem. Still, the sentiment of the remark could not be ignored, even by the most selfish among us: Me.

Since I had been the beneficiary of other people’s efforts for quite a few years, some pent-up guilt grabbed my ill-prepared tongue. Without sufficient forethought I quipped, “I will be happy to take care of the entire dinner next year.” A shock wave that surely measured a solid seven on the Richter Scale, enveloped the ears of those who knew that my chance of pulling that off was about as likely as me becoming the first pregnant male. Unable to hide the sarcasm, one of the usual chefs demanded to know just how I would propose to accomplish such a monumental task.

Finding myself backed into a self-imposed corner, I demanded of my mind that it quickly make up something credible that would get me out of my most uncomfortable predicament. Suddenly the great Turkey God sent me a special blessing for which I have been forever grateful ever since. Without so much as missing one swirl in a bowl of mashed potatoes I said, “Simple, I will just go to Boston Market and buy enough food for all of us and nobody will have to do much of anything.” Ah what a stroke of brilliance!

The complainer, so very proud of all of her favorite T-Day dishes, promptly retorted that the holiday would not be the same with “store-bought love”. Whew! That declaration revealed a weakness in my adversary’s game-plan: Namely, the tradition was more important to her than escaping the work-load.

Knowing her weakness, and realizing that my next comment might determine the format of all future feasts, I hit her with my knock-out punch, “Look, nobody said we have to have all of those specific dishes or that anybody in particular has to take responsibility for the ordeal. I never tell you how to do it, but if you want me to do it, at least let me do it my way.”

“That just wouldn’t be the same.”

And that guaranteed that things would go on “as usual” until further notice.

As the years ticked by, Patty’s dad passed on and her mom could not keep up with the lifestyle of living in the mountains. Most of the grandkids got married and a new generation of youngins has joined the mix. That means a few more friends get invited and there is still a pack of dogs to attend.

For the last few years we have moved the gathering to Adam’s home, which is much better suited to a clan of this size. The good news is we have changed one primary tradition. I buy an entire flock of small turkeys and the fellows deep-fry them, along with any other crazy concoctions they dream up. But I am happy to report that tradition, gluttony, pumpkin pie with lots of whip cream, and football still play a prominent role.

I love Thanksgiving.

What about you?

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