Tonight I’m en route to Detroit (recently–and controversially–named the country’s most dangerous city) for a holiday that promises to be story worthy. A few memories from Thanksgivings past (cue extraneous use of bullet points):
- Last Thursday of November, 2002: Visiting aunt puts salt in pumpkin pies instead of sugar (but shouldn’t be blamed; Goligoski family’s jars mislabeled); adults smile politely; kindergartener cousin spits out his piece and reaches for beverage to clear his palette; selects Gatorade container in refrigerator, not knowing it contains turkey fat; in absence of former smiles, everyone winces.
- Mid-May, 2003: Having long forgotten that there seemed to be no weekend-after-Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches last year, mother is horrified upon remembering that the leftovers were placed on the screen porch when the refrigerator became too full after dinner. When giving a tour of the house to a friend five months later, she is shocked to find turkey remnants that had frozen and thawed several times (after wondering why a slew of cats were lurking all winter–yikes).
- November 23, 2005: While studing abroad and having a less-than memorable meal of Australian dorm cuisine, I get a phone call from cousins recalling how mother spilled “an entire huge plate” of cranberries, getting them all over the dining room and their white ceiling (“just repainted!”). Barely missed cousin’s wedding veil. Dinner resumed without candied fruit.