Screw the Turkey. And the Stuffing.

My childhood didn’t include extended family descending like biblical locusts for a day of gluttony, and I’ve never taken part in a Turkey Bowl. The thought of cranberry jelly oozing through my teeth sends a shiver up my spine, and I could outlast Ghandi if bean casserole was the only thing left on earth to eat. For me, Thanksgiving was just one of those no-school-no-work-lots-of-food days.

And then I met my husband.

Who also viewed Thanksgiving as one of those no-school-no-work-lots-of-food-extra-hours-on-my-bicycle days. The first couple of years, no turkey came within a mile of our kitchen. We slept in late, went to bed early and watched football while we snacked on snack-y things and drank out of mason jars.

As soon as the vows were spoken our respective families began circling and in a pre-emptive strike before our offspring became the spoils of war, we laid out our holiday battle strategy. Canadian Thanksgiving for one. American Thankgsiving for the other. Our house for Christmas.

For 10 years we stood our ground, even as the different camps subtly campaigned for changes. Stuffing our toddling son and barely born daughter into car seats, we suffered through tantrums and screaming and pleasantries. We held our tempers as my figure received its annual evaluation, grit our teeth as cousins bullied cousins, and suffered the digestive insults of a mountain of fat and butter. And we fell into bed giving thanks that Thanksgiving was over.

And then my husband died.

Exactly one month later I made the trek to his family’s house. Alone save two screaming children, I forced turkey into a digestive track that recoiled against sustenance at a table where he loomed unspoken. A year later, resigned to the fact that everything had changed but refusing to accept that it had, the air was uncomfortable as serving spoons clinked and unspoken questions went unanswered. Another year passed and as turkeys around the nation ran for cover, passive acceptance became fiery anger as another Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon. He was gone but nothing had changed.

And with one scoop of buttery mashed potatoes, everything did.

This year there will be snack-y things and Turkey Trots, new places and snow falling. The air will be filled with laughter, not silence. We’ll throw footballs and ride bikes, and we’ll drink hot chocolate as we deck the halls. We’ll remember stories of Thanksgivings past, and we’ll feast on the things we like. 

Unlike last year, when my relationship status was served up for discussion alongside squishy cranberry jelly. Neither of which should be on the menu.