Thanksgiving or Giving Thanks

This is the day for families and scraping the mashed potatoes off the ceiling.

The women folk madly preparing and cooking in the kitchen, while the youngins’ were outside playing tag, and the men were in the garage working on the car projects they had neglected all week. This was our Thanksgiving Day tradition, and I loved the peaceful hum of activity on that special day.

As you grew old enough, if you were a girl, you would be ushered into the kitchen with the women folk to be taught the art of cooking, and if you were a boy, you were taken into the garage to learn about gaskets. My first Thanksgiving apprenticeship on how to be womenfolk, I was put in charge of onions! That did not last long. After I peeled my first onion and broke into tears, I was fired. Then grandma moved me over to the dirty dish sink, and after I was drenched in water, I got fired from that too.  Finally, they gave me a job it seemed I could not mess up; whipping mashed potatoes.  The counter was covered with food and dishes, and there was nowhere to put the pot other than the empty sink, whereupon I began whipping the potatoes with the electric mixer.   It was going okay until my little brother came running into the kitchen and went careening into me. I got shoved in, the mixer went up, the potatoes flipped all over the ceiling, and unbeknownst to me, a Brillo pad resting on the edge of the sink plopped into the vat of potatoes.

Part of Thanksgiving is giving thanks to God for all that he has graced us with, including friends.   What would that special day be without guests to witness your kerfuffles, and see you being the raw, true family that you are. So, on this day, mom did something bold. She invited the priest! Beaming with pride over her nine children, handsome husband and well-appointed table, the Priest took his place at the table. We were all nervous to have such an honored guest at our home, and mom and dad told us to be on our best behavior and we were!  No elbows on the table, napkins were placed properly on our laps, and “please and thank-you” seemed to be the prominent discussion.  It was all going so well, until mom asked Father if he would like some mashed potatoes. He said yes, and she scooped up one big mound and there on the top sat the Brillo pad!  We all sat shocked and still, like some kind of Norman Rockwell painting frozen in time.  Mom’s face turned red, she apologized profusely, and immediately threw me under the bus and stated that it was little Suzie who was in charge of the mashed potatoes! Father laughed and said it was okay and passed on the potatoes and said, “Ill take the green beans instead.” 

When I look over Thanksgivings past, I relish the crazy ones, and look forward to hearing other families’ crazy stories of kitchens catching fire, snapping wish bones, and snapping tempers smoothed over by a family prayer of Thanksgiving that they even have a family.  For me on that day, I learned all about giving thanks, Thank God no one saw the mashed potatoes on the ceiling till after Father left.