Last Thanksgiving
Shirlee Jellum
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Candles flickered on window sills and tables, golden light reflected on glass and polished wood, a warm welcome to family members arriving for the holiday feast. A centerpiece graced the dining room table—a handmade bouquet of crimson maple leaves, snowberries, rosehips and dried seedpods. Platters of hors d’oevres—melted brie with whole grain crackers, spinach dip with veggies, smoked salmon and sausage-stuffed mushrooms—filled the room with delectable aromas. Chilled bottles of homemade rhubarb and pear wine sparkled next to heirloom crystal wineglasses, waiting for that first sip.
“Yuk! What’s that?” My granddaughter Moni grimaced, pointing to the dip.
“It looks like boogers!” Her cousins, Bruce and Henry, shrieked with laughter, sticking fingers in their noses and chasing her around the table.
“Whoa! Settle it down, kids!” I grabbed her around the waist and whispered, “Try it, you might like it.” Scooping a carrot in the dip, I took a large bite. “Yum!”
“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. She walked around the table, sniffing each plate and scowling. “Don’t you have any Doritos or Cheetos?”
“You know I don’t buy junk food.” I spread some brie on a cracker. “Here, try this.”
“Eww,” she said, holding her nose. “Gross! I’ll wait for dinner,” She flicked her hair over her shoulder then flounced out of the room.
“What’s that green stuff on top?” Bruce asked, pointing to the brie. “Yuck!”
“I dare you to try it,” Henry said.
“Ugh! No way! You try it!” Bruce backed up against the wall.
“Let me use your iPad and I will.” I knew Henry would eat anything, so he’d be spending the evening glued to Bruce’s toy. I handed him the cracker. “Deal?” Bruce nodded. Henry took a tentative bite, smirked, then stuffed the rest in his mouth. “Hand it over, sucker.”
“Anyone want wine?” I hollered into the next room. “Come get some snacks while they’re warm.”
The adults wandered in. “Looks good, but sorry, I’m not drinking this month. Trying to cleanse my system of toxins,” Michelle said, looking longingly at the wine. “I’ll just have ice water and a cracker.”
Ev put some veggies and dip on his plate. “Does this have any dairy or garlic?”
“Just a couple of cloves and sour cream. Why?”
He set his plate down. “Stomach problems. Is there anything here that doesn’t have dairy, garlic or gluten?”
I looked at the array of tasty snacks growing cold. “The mushrooms don’t, but the sausage is spicy. Can you eat spices?
“Only a little bit and no onion. Any onion in these?”
My god, what in the world does he eat? “Yes, there is. Sorry I don’t have any snacks you can eat. How about a glass of wine?”
“I quit wine a few months ago. Gives me a gut ache. I have some Le Croix and nuts in the car. Back in a flash.”
I turned to his wife, Mara. “How about you. Glass of wine?”
“Sure, I’ll have some pear, but I think I’ll pass on snacks and wait til dinner. It smells so good.”
Grae walked in, grabbed a plate and filled it with a mountain of food. “Do you have any salsa?” He poured a glass of rhubarb wine and swallowed it in three gulps.
What does he need salsa for? “Sorry, I’m out, but I do have some Tabasco.” I rummaged in the fridge. “Here.”
He shook several drops onto his food, tasted a mushroom, then added more. “Never can have enough heat,” he said, wandering back to the living room.
I stood alone at the dining table, surveying the mostly untouched snack plates and nearly full wine bottles. Maybe I should just serve dinner. I collected the food then checked on the turkey and warming side dishes. Everything was ready to dish up.
Seated at the table, I was thankful for this first large family gathering in several years and grateful for the bounty of food from our garden to accompany the 25-pound turkey—Yukon gold potatoes with rosemary, fluffy wild mushroom stuffing, honey-glazed walnut carrots, waldorf salad with three kinds of fresh apples and home-grown dried raisins, fresh-baked huckleberry and pumpkin pies.
I held up my wine glass. “Here’s to family and good food,” I said. “Now dig in.” I turned to Moni sitting beside me. “Would you like light or dark meat?” I asked, ready to serve her a slice of turkey.
“I don’t eat meat,” she announced loudly. “I’m a vegetarian.” I looked at her mother, Coley.
She shrugged. “She only eats chicken nuggets. Any chance you have a box of mac and cheese?”
Are you kidding? Salt and fat disguised in fake orange powder? I shook my head. “No, but how about a peanut butter sandwich?”
“I’m allergic,” Moni replied.
“Sorry we forgot to tell you,” her dad, John, said sheepishly. “Had to take her to emergency a couple weeks ago. Pass the stuffing, please.”
“How about a jam sandwich?” Coley suggested.
Yuck, I thought, sounding like one of my grandkids. “Sure, coming right up. Half or whole?”
“She can eat a whole one,” John said as he helped himself to gravy. “And will you cut off the crust?” Jeez, that’s the best part.
While my dinner was getting cold, I spread strawberry jam on whole grain bread, cutting off the crust to save for the birds. “Here you go,” I said, handing her the sandwich.
She frowned. “I don’t like dark bread with seeds.” So, go hungry you little ingrate. “Sorry, sweetie, that’s all I have.” I tossed the sandwich on the counter, sat down and resumed eating.
“Pass the turkey, please.” Coley took the smallest slice and passed on the stuffing, potatoes and gravy. “This all looks and smells so good, but I need to lose twenty pounds before our trip to Mexico.” She put two carrots and a tiny scoop of salad on her plate. “Pass the wine, please.”
Ev had a pile of turkey but nothing else. “Would you like some carrots and potatoes?” I held out the bowls toward him.
“Sorry, Mom, but I can’t eat root vegetables, or anything with gluten or sugar.” Plus onions, garlic and dairy…my god, is my family going nuts? He took a bite of meat. “Turkey’s real good.”
I looked around the table at everyone’s plate. Bruce was picking walnuts and raisins out of his salad, lining them up along the edge of his plate. “Eat your carrot,” his mom said, pushing it toward him with her fork.
“It’s slimy and smells funny,” he whined, wrinkling his nose.
“Then finish your turkey, or no dessert,” she said, pouring another glass of wine.
“It’s too dry. I’ll choke.”
“Then have a bit of gravy on it.”
“It’s got lumps in it.” He squirmed in his chair, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
“Those are mushrooms, silly. You like mushrooms.”
“No, I don’t, except on pizza.”
“Did you try your salad?” I asked. “It has three kinds of apples.” Every kid likes apples, right?
“He won’t eat fruit,” his dad said, taking another slice of turkey. No fruit? What’s wrong with him? “Here, Bruce, have a roll.”
“Ick!” he said, pushing it off his plate onto the table. “It’s all brown and squishy.”
“Then no dessert,” his mom said, emptying a bottle of wine.
Watching Bruce with fascination, Henry finished his full plate of food and asked for seconds. Grae was dishing up more stuffing and potatoes, slathering them with hot sauce.
“Grandma makes the best desserts in the universe!” Moni exclaimed. “Can I have some now?”
“Later, baby,” John said, scooping up another serving of potatoes and gravy.
“Can I be excused?” she asked.
“Me too!” Bruce added.
“Me three!” Henry said, grabbing another roll.
I waited for my husband to put his foot down, demand they all try one bite of everything, clean their plates, wait until the adults were finished. But he was done with the drama. “Great dinner, babe,” he said, as he cleared his plate from the table. No dessert for me,” he added, patting his stomach. “Too late for sugar. Heartburn.”
I looked at the piles of leftover food, many plates still covered with carrots, bits of salad, half-eaten rolls, turkey bones, soggy stuffing, the twenty pounds of turkey we’d be eating for a week. The candles had melted down to lumpy piles of wax, the centerpiece drooping from being jostled by platters and serving dishes. I thought of the two pies that wouldn’t be eaten—fruit, sugar, gluten and dairy shunned by nearly everyone—then poured myself another glass of wine.
“Great dinner,” the adults echoed as they left the table.
I sighed. Next year I’ll take a vacation.
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Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher who publishes fiction, nonfiction and poetry, most recently in WayWords, Persimmon Tree, Last Stanza, Word Peace, and several anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well as a finalist in WOW fiction and nonfiction contests.
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Posted in Fall Feasts: Nov' 24 and tagged in #boudin, #fiction, Fiction