Post-thanksgiving Musings

Ahhhh … Thanksgiving 2023 is now under our belts — after loosening them a few notches.

Overall, my family and I count ours a success. All 17 — four generations — gathered at our house, a miraculous feat in itself. We held hands and gave thanks to God for His goodness. We ate. We laughed.

I even survived the second oven disaster in two years. Last Thanksgiving, berry pie juices ran over. The resulting smoke nearly asphyxiated us, including my 90-year-old father-in-law and the lady friend he had invited.

This Thanksgiving, I swore off berry pies. After baking our turkey, I scrubbed away every vestige of crud from our oven. Our daughter-in-law brought store-bought pumpkin pies, ensuring that our family, including my 91-year-old father-in-law and his new lady friend, would not be subjected to a similar disaster. (Did I mention he is a real chick magnet?)

This Thanksgiving, the timer proclaimed that soon, the sweet potato casserole would be done, the feast would be complete, and I could breathe a sigh of relief.

Except when the timer dinged and I pulled out the rack, the casserole dish slid off backward, dumping half its contents onto the oven floor and into the broiler.

For the second straight year, despite desperate digging efforts, we were smoked like turkeys. For the second straight year, though, no one left. Also, no one died of heatstroke or frostbite from a thermostat set 2.6 degrees different from theirs at home.

Fierce rounds of the Taco Vs. Burrito Game kept everyone occupied. When gangs of relatives, armed with fake Mexican entrees, are chasing you, you do not waste time fussing about being cold.

Another miracle: nobody was injured during the chases, nor during the entire holiday gathering. No one whacked anyone with a ping-pong paddle or poked a pool champion in the eye with a cue stick. Another miracle: I. Won. A. Game.

I, the family loser for decades, actually defeated one of my kin in a game of foosball.

What if he is five years old? A win is a win. Despite smoky challenges, this Thanksgiving proved a special time for all. Hopefully, yours did too.

Now, though, we all must leave holiday fun behind and reorient to normalcy, whatever that is.

First, we must find things, such as furniture. Adding tables and shifting sofas for sleeping bags always messes with my husband’s universe.

“What happened to that chair I always trip over?” Hubby questions.

“I moved it to my office so no one else will trip over it. Don’t worry, though, I’ll bring it back. Just for you.”

He never shows sufficient gratitude for my solicitude.

I recall plants stuffed into gloomy corners to sunny spots. My lovely decorative pillows from the floor to their proper places on the sofas. We search for kitchen items hidden by guests who helped cook and clean up. Will I ever see my cherished potato peeler again?

Hubby wanders through the house, mourning the disappearance of his mug. The Mug. The Only Mug in the World worthy to hold his tea.

I hid medicines so well that, like last January’s clearance-sale gifts for Christmas 2023, they now reside in a black hole somewhere in a universe far, far away.

Still, both of us find Legos, even in the middle of the night. In our bathrooms.

Let us steer our thoughts toward the positive. After all, Hubby and I now can watch basketball and football instead of the Mongolian Dart Channel our relatives favor.

A trip to the store for milk does not involve an hour-long shift of cars in the driveway (after finding everyone’s keys).

We do not have to vote on every activity, such as taking a walk. (Is it warm enough to take a walk? Cool enough? What about distance and destination? To Fitbit or not to Fitbit? Earphones or acknowledgement of each other’s existence? Wait, who took my coat?)

Nobody is throwing tacos or burritos, real or fake, at each other.

Ahhh … We now have Thanksgiving under our belts. We relax into the comfortable ruts we inhabit month after month.

Until Christmas.