Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is about Thanksgiving and food. 

I was having a really hard time coming up with anything particularly unique about our Thanksgiving, until last night, when this year’s got canceled.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. Actually, it’s only canceled for my mother, who fell and broke her pelvis during game 6 of the World Series. I know it was Game 6 because having lived almost my whole life in Dallas, with a baseball team that was a major joke for years, Game 6 nearly killed me. I also know that when I got the call from my stepfather at the hospital, part of me was really depressed that I was going to have to head to the emergency room and miss the end of the game. (I know. I know. I’m ashamed and going to hell. I know.)

However, as it turned out, we were told NOT to come to the hospital. I talked to her on the phone briefly as the sedation was kicking in and got to stay home to watch the end of the game. And that’s when God smited me for my insensitivity by making it impossible for the Rangers to get ONE OUT. ONE LOUSY OUT… 

Sorry. Back to Thanksgiving. We don’t do anything terribly exciting. No cooking all night. No days and days of baking. We used to go to Grandmother’s, (who probably DID cook all night) but once she sold the house, the gathering became more of a moveable feast  – every year at someone else’s home.  The most memorable thing about Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s was not the food so much – though the dressing was AMAZING, but the fact that she jumped up from the table to run into the kitchen for some forgotten item so often we actually videotaped her end of the table one year so we could show her what she was doing.  I don’t know what on earth was so important in the kitchen that kept her popping up and down like a crazed jack-in-the-box, unless it was shots of vodka.   - Which explains why the rolls always burned. And my predilection for martinis.

When my mother married my stepfather a new tradition was created. I call it, “Thanks for giving me a stepfather who knows how to make a reservation.” Each year we eat Thanksgiving “dinner” at a restaurant. For years it was Les Saisons, then they moved or went out of business. (And yes, the French Thanksgiving theme was a little odd.) Then we tried some other location, and eventually settled on the country club.

Let me just say, Thanksgiving at the country club is a glorious experience. The turkey is stacked neatly on a cushion of cornbread dressing, the squash casserole is to die for, and there are cocktails. Shrimp cocktails, crab claws, smoked salmon, oysters. Champagne, Bloody Marys, wine. The only strenuous thing you have to do is wind your way around the buffet tables with a plate laden with 10 lbs. of yummy goodness.

Anyway, up until last night, Mom kept insisting she was going to be able to attend this three hour food fest, somehow ignoring that broken pelvis / sitting situation. The pain medications must not be keeping her in La La Land anymore because she announced she would NOT be attending our annual festivities. Instead, she proposed that we all go to the club without her, stuff ourselves (or as Granio would say, “Have sufficient,”) and return to the house with a “to go” selection of buffet items.

I was hesitant at first to accept this proposition, but it seemed to be what she wanted, so I agreed. (Part of me thought it could be a trap. People on pain medication can be crafty.) But so far, no repercussions. It looks like Thursday will indeed be a Thanksgiving without Mom. At least temporarily. And for that reason alone, it will be memorable, if a bit melancholy. (Yet still delicious.)

Wait a minute. I just had a horrible thought. Please tell me I wasn’t supposed to volunteer to keep her company while everyone ELSE goes to the club. 

Uh oh.

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