I love tradition, especially around the holidays. For me, the holidays aren’t about the feast or the presents, but about being with family. Unfortunately this year, what has become my Thanksgiving tradition is not happening. Normally I head to my Auntie Gayle and Uncle Jeff’s house and stay with them for the long weekend, as it is a long trip to Montana for dinner. This year, they have opted to visit their youngest son in Denver, leaving their two older children, their spouses and I adrift on Turkey Day.
So my Turkey tradition since I started college is not happening this year. I was pondering what to do when my dad offered to fly me home. It’s so rare that I get to go home to Montana during any part of the year other than Christmas, I took him up on it. One of my ousted cousins and her husband are also coming over to MT to eat turkey.
Going home for Thanksgiving got me thinking about my holiday memories. Don’t be horrified by this next statement, but the food isn’t my favorite part. I know, the horror. But let’s think about this, even though I’m a slightly less picky eater now than I was a kid, I still don’t like my food to touch. Feast days designed around seeing how much food you can fit onto a single plate are tough on a girl who still doesn’t like her mashed potatoes touching the stuffing.
I don’t remember how old I was for the worst Thanksgiving ever. We lived in the little blue house in town, although since my parents painted it soon after buying it, I’m not sure why I still think of it as the little blue house. I’m guessing I was still in elementary school, somewhere between 3rd and 6th grades. That was the year my mom not only made every horrible vegetable you can think of, but also made me try all of them. Instead of my plate being covered in my favorite mashed potatoes and gravy, it had the dreaded brussel sprouts and squash on it. Luckily, after gagging repeatedly while still at the table, I was sent to the bathroom while everyone else finished dinner. Fine by me as long as I didn’t have to eat the damn sprouts and squash.
To this day, the idea of squash still makes my stomach turn. For the first time in 20 years, a brussel sprout passed my lips this past spring. But only because my aunt drowned them in butter. They weren’t terrible. I’d consider eating them again if they were baked.
Now since I rarely go home for Thanksgiving, I can submit my food requests. Ironically, things that I didn’t like as a kid are on the list now. I’m talking pierogi’s, not squash and brussel sprouts. And now the Thanksgiving I spent in the bathroom is a funny memory for all. Jokes on you squash.
So my Turkey tradition since I started college is not happening this year. I was pondering what to do when my dad offered to fly me home. It’s so rare that I get to go home to Montana during any part of the year other than Christmas, I took him up on it. One of my ousted cousins and her husband are also coming over to MT to eat turkey.
Going home for Thanksgiving got me thinking about my holiday memories. Don’t be horrified by this next statement, but the food isn’t my favorite part. I know, the horror. But let’s think about this, even though I’m a slightly less picky eater now than I was a kid, I still don’t like my food to touch. Feast days designed around seeing how much food you can fit onto a single plate are tough on a girl who still doesn’t like her mashed potatoes touching the stuffing.
I don’t remember how old I was for the worst Thanksgiving ever. We lived in the little blue house in town, although since my parents painted it soon after buying it, I’m not sure why I still think of it as the little blue house. I’m guessing I was still in elementary school, somewhere between 3rd and 6th grades. That was the year my mom not only made every horrible vegetable you can think of, but also made me try all of them. Instead of my plate being covered in my favorite mashed potatoes and gravy, it had the dreaded brussel sprouts and squash on it. Luckily, after gagging repeatedly while still at the table, I was sent to the bathroom while everyone else finished dinner. Fine by me as long as I didn’t have to eat the damn sprouts and squash.
To this day, the idea of squash still makes my stomach turn. For the first time in 20 years, a brussel sprout passed my lips this past spring. But only because my aunt drowned them in butter. They weren’t terrible. I’d consider eating them again if they were baked.
Now since I rarely go home for Thanksgiving, I can submit my food requests. Ironically, things that I didn’t like as a kid are on the list now. I’m talking pierogi’s, not squash and brussel sprouts. And now the Thanksgiving I spent in the bathroom is a funny memory for all. Jokes on you squash.
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