Ahhh Yes--Thanksgiving Memories

 

 

 

Every family has some Thanksgiving horror in its history.

Whether it be ruining the turkey, dropping the mashed potatoes on the way to the table, or simply forgetting to buy that tasty can of cranberry jelly, we have ALL had some sort of holiday disaster.

My family has had one … a few…OK,  several .

The first turkey I ever remember being cooked for Thanksgiving was when I was five or six years old. As many of you wonderful cooks out there know, a turkey has to be cooked for quite a while to go from a naked jay bird to a brown mouth-watering center piece.  

Well, it just so happened that someone, somewhere, somehow, had told my Momma that the bird would cook and brown to perfection if she rubbed it down with peanut oil , placed it in a brown paper sack, and the slid it into the hot oven.   

Now, Momma wanted to present her household with a perfect bird, so she gave old Tom Turkey a peanut oil bath, slapped him in the bag, and put him in oven.

 Soon, the trouble began.

While every other home in town was filled with the sweet aroma of a bird in the oven, our house was filled with something else. SMOKE! 

A London fog had rolled into the living room, kitchen, and dining room. Even though it was November, the windows were all up, and everybody was fanning. My brother and I finally ran into our bedroom and shoved towels under the door. We learned that trick from watching the “Towering Inferno” on TV.

Needless to say, at our table that year, we all had a smokers hack and blood shot eyes.

But, the bird was really good.

There was another time when Daddy declared that we would eat our Thanksgiving Dinner out. We were all excited about that as we did not eat out at ALL. He had a big plan to make it easier on Momma and give us all a big thrill. We could barely wait until Thanksgiving rolled around. 

When the usual hour of Thanksgiving dinner rolled around, Daddy cut loose with his master plan. He was going to go get Kentucky Fried Chicken.  We all looked at each other for a moment, then thought, “Oh well.”  So, we picked up the phone and called. It rang, and rang, and rang, (you get the picture).

They were CLOSED ON THANKSGIVING (Duh).

SO we boycotted that year. No turkeys or chickens were harmed in the making of that fiasco.

I can skip all the other minor malfunctions down through the years and go straight to the big guns. We call this story, “Ash Thursday”.

Yep—to make a long story short, due to circumstances beyond our control, the turkey went to that great ash pile in the sky, LITERALLY. It was burnt to a crispy mess of black charcoal so bad that the dog couldn’t even crunch it up.

But along with the bad turkey days, we have had plenty of the good. There have been Thanksgiving dinners where everything was perfect and no mishaps were recorded in the family history. 

But we remember each one of those Thanksgivings, good and bad, all the same.

You see, it really doesn’t matter to my family.

Thanksgiving is about being thankful for the blessing you have been gifted by the Almighty all through the year.

 Our brood is blessed a dozen times over every year.  As long as we are all happy, healthy, and can be together, we could pass around a can of potted meat and a pack of crackers and all would still be right in the world.

So remember, even if your bird takes flight, or the sweet potatoes are gloopy, or the electric knife gets stuck in “kill” mode, take it all in stride and be grateful. You have been blessed by the Almighty, and Thanksgiving only comes once a year.

But, and I hate to bring this up, Christmas is only 26 days way.

 

 

Potty Time Mayhem

At Dogwood, there are three words that can both provide either joy, or complete terror.

Those words are “Let’s Go Potty”.

 These simple words can bring on a reaction that would make a layman wonder if either war had been declared, or if a nuclear warhead was dropping outside the window.

But to the canine four legged felons who inhabit Dogwood, they are a call to action.

Like stallions they run for the back door, with me in the lead, hoping to get it open before they pounce. But in my efforts, I usually forget the storm door. But I needn’t worry. Linus burst it open with a flying ninja kick that sends it back against the side of the house with a FWAP!

The irony of this little exercise in futility is that, once the hounds have cleared the door and are on the pavement, they suddenly look at me like, “What are we doing out here?”

Then I begin the ten to fifteen minute encouragement phase of our trip to bountiful. Translation: GO POOP!

Charlie wanders through the yard like he’s never been there before. But he is the first to offer up offerings to the poop gods.   Lucy will run to the edge of the pavement, drop her load, and strut back like she just left me a bag of diamonds on the grass.  Daisy and Linus have a hard time concentrating on making the drop. They are too busy chasing each other around, flinging leaves and mud everywhere. If Duchess Daisy truly needs to “go”, she’ll stop mid romp and let it fly. Trying to get Linus to achieve escape velocity is another chore indeed. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do except chase Daisy and run circles through the gates.

Ahhh, my little goof. I love him so.

Hines has to sniff everywhere (and I mean everywhere) to find that one special spot of undesecrated ground in which leave his tiny caveman club’s. Squirt has no such special requirement. He can drop his junk anywhere and be perfectly happy. 

There whole process can take anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes, depending on the level of stubbornness they are feeling and the weather conditions. God forbid that the grass should be wet or that it should be raining. Charlie is the only brave heart of my bunch that will venture out into the wet.

All the rest are either afraid of that strange wet stuff falling from the sky or just too darn picky to get their feet wet.

As you all know---sugar melts.

As the herd grazes the yard, I enjoy a smoke and keep an ever vigilant eye on their behavior and their progress.  As the old saying goes, “Sometimes you win, sometimes you  lose”.

After the time is up, and hopefully the mission completed, I call to them with the next magic word, “Cookie” and the stallions once again bound past me, through the open door and into the kitchen for tiny morsels of goodness brought to us by the good people at “Milkbone’.

Once the craving for treats has been satisfied, and the urge to have a bowel movement in the kitchen floor (it happens) has passed, my six little canine convicts are ready to once again do what they do best: sleep and watch TV.

But in the end, I can’t blame them. It’s what I do best too.