The First Thanksgiving

My first Thanksgiving at what would become my in-laws house.  I didn’t know it at the time, but their son would become my husband and I would give birth to their first grandchild.  Early family dinners are filled with such tension.  I wanted to impress them.  I wanted them to like me.

When I sat down, there was a marvel at my place.  A soup bowl filled with mashed potatoes.  At my home we serve our potatoes in a huge bowl that barely contains the almost 10 pounds of buttery mashed goodness, yet there is always bickering because everyone wants their fair share for the meal, and leftovers.  A curse on whoever leaves potatoes on their plate Thanksgiving day.  This pre-portioning solves all the problems.  My in-laws are geniuses!

We pass the food and fill our plates.  I take my fork and dip it into my potatoes.  Not as good as my parents, but edible.  I try another forkful.  My future husband leans over and whispers, “Those are for everyone.”

I have double dipped my fork in the soup bowl of potatoes meant to be shared with seven people.  Meekly I take a smidgen and pass to my left.  Then I get the “gravy” which looks like pan drippings with giblets floating in it.  I pass it on without dampening my dollop of potatoes.

It’s a wonder I stayed with him after that meal.  It’s a wonder I ever went back for another Thanksgiving.

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