When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was always hosted by my dad’s parents. It was probably my least favorite holiday after my birthday. That grandmother was fussy. She didn’t like me much. At one point I thought it was children in general but there were a few instances that showed it was just me.
I wasn’t allowed to touch anything, not even the toys that were kept there for me. As she always put it, I’d ruin them if I played with them. No, they weren’t antiques. They weren’t fancy, special, collector’s items. They were just plain toys yet I was very rarely permitted to get them out of the closet where they were stashed.
Then there was dinner. Turkey. Not one of my favorites to begin with and especially not hers. It was always dry. And the gravy tasted funny so it was no help. Her version of potato filling was mashed potatoes with saffron and parsley. Dried corn, lettuce with hot bacon dressing and creamed onions for the veggies, none of which were kid-friendly. Pumpkin pie for dessert. Again, something I prefer not to eat.
There were two things that salvaged the day for me. Black olives that my grandfather would let me put on my fingertips and eat before dinner, something that infuriated my grandmother. I never knew if it was because I ate them from my fingers, because I had them prior to the meal, or because he didn’t make me sit at the table while having them. All I know is every year I’d have my olives and get hollered at. And then she’d comment during dinner that I wasn’t eating because I filled up on olives. You can imagine the drama the year I informed her that I simply didn’t like the dinner she cooked. Yes, I was in major trouble once we got back home for that one.
The other saving grace was Aunt Violet. She was older than dirt and I’m not entirely sure actually related to anyone. Picture bumbling Aunt Clara from Bewitched and that was Aunt Violet. The only time she ever appeared was on Thanksgiving Day. I never knew where she came from or where she was the rest year. I don’t even know what happened to her at the end of the day. One minute she’d be there in her hat with the layer of netting over her forehead and the next she’d vanish. I’m fairly certain she wasn’t a figment of my imagination because I asked and other people remember her too. Unless maybe it was a mass hallucination. Probably brought on by the olives.
Anyway, have a happy and safe Thanksgiving. Hope it’s better than mine used to be.
I wasn’t allowed to touch anything, not even the toys that were kept there for me. As she always put it, I’d ruin them if I played with them. No, they weren’t antiques. They weren’t fancy, special, collector’s items. They were just plain toys yet I was very rarely permitted to get them out of the closet where they were stashed.
Then there was dinner. Turkey. Not one of my favorites to begin with and especially not hers. It was always dry. And the gravy tasted funny so it was no help. Her version of potato filling was mashed potatoes with saffron and parsley. Dried corn, lettuce with hot bacon dressing and creamed onions for the veggies, none of which were kid-friendly. Pumpkin pie for dessert. Again, something I prefer not to eat.
There were two things that salvaged the day for me. Black olives that my grandfather would let me put on my fingertips and eat before dinner, something that infuriated my grandmother. I never knew if it was because I ate them from my fingers, because I had them prior to the meal, or because he didn’t make me sit at the table while having them. All I know is every year I’d have my olives and get hollered at. And then she’d comment during dinner that I wasn’t eating because I filled up on olives. You can imagine the drama the year I informed her that I simply didn’t like the dinner she cooked. Yes, I was in major trouble once we got back home for that one.
The other saving grace was Aunt Violet. She was older than dirt and I’m not entirely sure actually related to anyone. Picture bumbling Aunt Clara from Bewitched and that was Aunt Violet. The only time she ever appeared was on Thanksgiving Day. I never knew where she came from or where she was the rest year. I don’t even know what happened to her at the end of the day. One minute she’d be there in her hat with the layer of netting over her forehead and the next she’d vanish. I’m fairly certain she wasn’t a figment of my imagination because I asked and other people remember her too. Unless maybe it was a mass hallucination. Probably brought on by the olives.
Anyway, have a happy and safe Thanksgiving. Hope it’s better than mine used to be.
1 comment:
LOL:) Yours sound like mine, only my vice was rolls. I had a great-grandmother who always harped on my picky eating habits!
Hope you had a good one sweetie...I've been in the Edit Hell Cave and have finally emerged:) I'll be uploading photos to Facebook soon.
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