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Thanksgiving memories

November 22, 2005

With Turkey Day coming up this week, I was reminiscing about Thanksgivings past the other night. I think that Thanksgiving 1987 still holds the title for my favorite. And so the story goes…

I was 8 years old, and I was determined to do something more than the pickle platter and rolls, which is what I had always been assigned in the past. In our house, my mom makes cranberry sauce from scratch, so even the menial task of getting the sauce from the can to the bowl wasn’t an option for little ol’ me. My dad was always in charge of mashed potatoes, since, after all, his idea of cooking is bringing home spaghetti and a jar of sauce and saying, “girls! I brought spaghetti for dinner!” and we had to cook it ourselves. I had decided that Thanksgiving 1987 was going to be my show in the spotlight. I was determined to be in charge of one of the hot foods that year. Green bean casserole, stuffing, I didn’t care.

My dad was great enough to pass the mashed potato torch that year, and believe me, I was ecstatic. I vowed to make the best mashed potatoes ever. I boiled those suckers and mashed my little heart out and they turned out great. So great, in fact, that I ate almost the whole bowl by myself. At the end of dinner, there was about a spoonful left, and rather than wrapping it up, I polished them off and made my way to the couch.

After about 15 minutes, the post-feast bloat set in and I was laying on the couch groaning and moaning while my mom cleaned up. In 30 minutes, I couldn’t even move. I was in so much pain, I thought I was going to pop. My dad said I looked like a little baby beached whale. My tummy was distended to the point that it hurt to breathe. I was truly miserable. I laid on the couch, writhing in pain for about six hours before I could get up and walk around. To this day, every Thanksgiving, I always get reminded by the family to go easy on the potatoes.

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