A belated happy Thanksgiving to everyone who has read my blog in the past, and everyone who thinks about it every time I post on Facebook and never clicks my post.
As you probably know, this is my first American Thanksgiving since 2009, because I spent last year in Salamanca eating turkey and potato puree and stuffing made out of turkey gizzards, and going to a bar for half-price cocktail night.
So as usual, my family spent the holiday with my mom’s parents. Yesterday, as we waged the annual Table Fight with the antique pullout table, trying to convince it to open up and let us insert the leaf for the 13 people who were coming for dinner, I felt compelled to mention this.
“You missed out,” said my grandparents. “You missed out,” said my sister. “Well, who’s fault was that?” said my father. “Yes,” said my mother, “you missed the carving of the turkey with stale bread up its ass.”
I had tried. “You know,” I said hopefully to my grandfather, “it’s better not to stuff the turkey before you roast it.”
He waved me off with a shrug of his Italian shoulders. “I know, but I’ve never gotten sick. But if you don’t want any of it, more for me!”
“No!” I said, a dangerous glint in my eye. “Some of that is mine!”
“Stuffing hound,” my mother said this afternoon, as I polished off the leftovers. I just grinned and took another bite. (I should mention that this was NOT the stuffing from the inside of the turkey; it was the still-delicious but slightly inferior pan made outside the bird with celery and chicken broth.)
My grandfather dropped an aluminum foil-wrapped packet on his plate.
My mother looked at it. “What’s that?”
“It’s mine and Mom’s,” my grandfather said. “It’s what we could scrape out of the bird.”
My mother and I eyed it as it was passed to my grandmother’s plate. “It’s mine,” my grandmother said. “I didn’t get any last night cause you all ate it!”
We all hastily denied any culpability, blaming it on the contractor and his wife who’d originally come to the house to redo the bathroom in September and had stayed for dinner possibly every night since.
“I don’t know,” my mother said with a grin. “I’m sitting close enough to Mom that I can probably take some from her plate.”
My grandmother eyed my mother. “If you do that, I will stab your hand with my fork!”