I just read an ad that said you can get your entire Thanksgiving dinner in a bag, complete with turkey, mashed potatoes, and an overly critical mother-in-law.
Get out the paddles for Great Aunt Ethel that such a day would come when holiday food would be poured out of a bag in a house filled with the smells of hot plastic and the sounds of a crackling microwave.
I can just see my Granny Jean staring down from that great all-you-can-eat buffet in the sky, curling up her lip and saying, "That is not how Thanksgiving is supposed to be.
Now, Peter, you know sweet potatoes go in the gold dish.
" When I was growing up Thanksgiving was about one thing and one thing only - food.
Not thankfulness, not pride in how far we've come, but food.
Had a run-in with the law? We'll forgive you.
Spent last summer naked on a commune chanting Kumbaya? We'll pray for you.
But bring instant mashed potatoes to a family reunion and you will be shunned for three generations.
I remember how relatives came from miles around, descending on Granny Jean's house like ants running towards that last morsel of egg salad left on a deserted picnic table - bringing their newest additions, latest attachments, lingering grudges, philosophies on life, and whatever dish they were known for making - like Aunt Vyrnetta's mashed potato surprise which taught me that surprise isn't always a good thing.
Or Aunt Bitsy's congealed salad wreath filled with fruit cocktail, that kept moving a good ten minutes after you set it down, much like Aunt Bitsy herself.
Our stuffing had sage in it, our cornbread had corn in it, our biscuits (yes, biscuits and cornbread) were so light and buttery they were known to turn heathens into saints on the spot.
And our green beans were so greased up that our lips had a permanent sheen of lard gloss for three days.
And no matter how many people were there or how long we stayed, there was always plenty of food.
It was a time when women gathered in the kitchen to whisk and whisper.
When children explored nooks and crannies of a house whose dark rooms whispered untold secrets.
When men checked out each other's engines and argued over baseball and politics while young couples found quiet corners to steal a kiss.
There was no television going.
There were no faces glued to video games.
Just the sound of laughter.
I remember the year we were traveling and the station wagon broke down and we had to trade Granny's holiday buffet for a sticky stool at the Waffle House, sharing dinner with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star.
We were kids, so it qualified as a new adventure.
Who needs a warm fire and soft music when you can have pancakes with whipped topping? That was the year I learned that things don't always stay the same.
And every year as I grow older I watch tiny pieces being chipped away from that warm Thanksgiving painting.
No more sage in the stuffing.
Some too busy to come this year.
Biscuits from a can.
Another empty chair.
A fat-free salad and oyster stew.
And sometimes the change is as subtle as the shift in my perspective.
Sometimes it makes me sad and I long for just one of those moments back - just a scent - just to hear that laughter one more time -to feel Granny's warm biscuit-scented hands wrapped around my face.
But, if I'm lucky, I remember that even as I speak I am creating new memories.
And just because the memories aren't the same as they once were, they will one day be treasured just as much, whether it's a warm spot by the fireplace or sitting on the seat of a sticky stool in the Waffle House eating pancakes and whipped topping with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star.
Get out the paddles for Great Aunt Ethel that such a day would come when holiday food would be poured out of a bag in a house filled with the smells of hot plastic and the sounds of a crackling microwave.
I can just see my Granny Jean staring down from that great all-you-can-eat buffet in the sky, curling up her lip and saying, "That is not how Thanksgiving is supposed to be.
Now, Peter, you know sweet potatoes go in the gold dish.
" When I was growing up Thanksgiving was about one thing and one thing only - food.
Not thankfulness, not pride in how far we've come, but food.
Had a run-in with the law? We'll forgive you.
Spent last summer naked on a commune chanting Kumbaya? We'll pray for you.
But bring instant mashed potatoes to a family reunion and you will be shunned for three generations.
I remember how relatives came from miles around, descending on Granny Jean's house like ants running towards that last morsel of egg salad left on a deserted picnic table - bringing their newest additions, latest attachments, lingering grudges, philosophies on life, and whatever dish they were known for making - like Aunt Vyrnetta's mashed potato surprise which taught me that surprise isn't always a good thing.
Or Aunt Bitsy's congealed salad wreath filled with fruit cocktail, that kept moving a good ten minutes after you set it down, much like Aunt Bitsy herself.
Our stuffing had sage in it, our cornbread had corn in it, our biscuits (yes, biscuits and cornbread) were so light and buttery they were known to turn heathens into saints on the spot.
And our green beans were so greased up that our lips had a permanent sheen of lard gloss for three days.
And no matter how many people were there or how long we stayed, there was always plenty of food.
It was a time when women gathered in the kitchen to whisk and whisper.
When children explored nooks and crannies of a house whose dark rooms whispered untold secrets.
When men checked out each other's engines and argued over baseball and politics while young couples found quiet corners to steal a kiss.
There was no television going.
There were no faces glued to video games.
Just the sound of laughter.
I remember the year we were traveling and the station wagon broke down and we had to trade Granny's holiday buffet for a sticky stool at the Waffle House, sharing dinner with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star.
We were kids, so it qualified as a new adventure.
Who needs a warm fire and soft music when you can have pancakes with whipped topping? That was the year I learned that things don't always stay the same.
And every year as I grow older I watch tiny pieces being chipped away from that warm Thanksgiving painting.
No more sage in the stuffing.
Some too busy to come this year.
Biscuits from a can.
Another empty chair.
A fat-free salad and oyster stew.
And sometimes the change is as subtle as the shift in my perspective.
Sometimes it makes me sad and I long for just one of those moments back - just a scent - just to hear that laughter one more time -to feel Granny's warm biscuit-scented hands wrapped around my face.
But, if I'm lucky, I remember that even as I speak I am creating new memories.
And just because the memories aren't the same as they once were, they will one day be treasured just as much, whether it's a warm spot by the fireplace or sitting on the seat of a sticky stool in the Waffle House eating pancakes and whipped topping with three guitar players from Utah and a waitress named Star.
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