Not Another Sad Dinner

(by Patricia Becker-Spellman)

I was 14 years old on that fateful Thanksgiving Day when I decided that enough was enough. The family would soon be gathering for what I knew would become yet another sad dinner. Once again, we would “gleefully” partake in my mother’s partially cooked, slightly tepid turkey. (There was one occasion when she cooked the giblets, bag and all, inside the bird.) The mashed potatoes would resemble soup, the carrots would be nearly raw, and the stuffing would look like mulch. (Trust me, I am being kind). We would conclude with store-bought, semi-thawed apple pie, topped with long-crystallized, months-old vanilla ice cream.

My usual “Welcome…to another sad dinner” would elicit stifled giggles from around the table, but my mother would just sigh and give me that glare. Fed-up with my annual stab at humor, she hissed, “If it’s so awful, Patricia, then you cook it!” as she abruptly left the table.