Upon reflecting back to that time in 1991, when the specter of the unforeseen offers our family reason to set conflict aside in favor of landing on the same page, let's imagine all five of us around our expansive dining room table, giving thanks for love of family, friends, great food and copious amounts of zany, good natured laughter. As you shall see, the accident that's about to take place, proving irreversibly disastrous to one, will grab hold of our minds immediately after our joyful Thanksgiving Day feast.
Had you been one of our guests, that night, this scene would meet your eye: Family and friends, made up of four generations, numbering fifteen is gathered round our elaborately decorated table, enjoying each other's company while indulging in a mouth-watering array of favorite dishes, which remains unchanging, year after year (inclusive of this year (2013), for this reason: Every one of my harmonic quartet of men has a favorite dish, which must be served or someone's smile will surely turn upside down, and you already know that Annie can't stand to know that she may in any way feel responsible for a loved one's frown. So when, in eager anticipation of flying home for that particular holiday weekend, Barry calls from D. C. (several days before boarding his plane) to say ... Mom, you're making the sweet potatoes, this year, right? Right! Oh good! And when you make the sweet potato casserole, you'll be sure to watch it carefully so the marshmallows don't burn, right? At this, Annie simply laughs and congenially replies ... No worries, Barry, I learned both of my lessons, last year! No one else will make our favorite dishes, and no burnt marshmallows will mar the perfection of this year's feast, I can safely promise you that! Thanks, Mom ... and you'll never let anyone else make the casserole, right? Laughing again, I reassure my eldest son, who—one day in the future when I am in too much pain to stand—will choose to whip up this casserole for 35 guests with help from his brothers rather than take a chance that someone else might screw it up.
In case you wonder why Barry feels the need to call for reassurance before flying home, let me explain what had taken place the previous year: My dear friend, Angie, asked to take on more responsibility for creating this festive feast for this reason: At that time, all of the holidays occurred at my house, because our home offered ample space to accommodate our ever-increasing clan. Angie knew that, though I live with chronic nerve pain, nothing stops me from preparing holidays that serve up joy to so many. And as my dear friend and her family loved to share holidays with us, she was looking to take good care of me. Therefore, with appreciation for her heartfelt sensitivity, I handed her the recipe for my menfolk's beloved sweet potato casserole.
At the end of that feast, Angie asked my men ... so how was my first try at your Mom's recipe? When everyone chimed in with great job, Angie turned to me and declared: Okay Annie, from now on I'll bring the turkey, stuffing and sweet potatoes ... Then we hugged and kissed and said good night.
No sooner did I close the front door than my quartet of men swooped down like a flock of wing-flapping roosters, peeking at my head while crowing aloud ... MOM! YOU CAN'T LET ANYONE EVER MAKE ANY OF OUR FAVORITE DISHES, AGAIN!
WHAT? I asked, utterly shocked. I thought you loved Angie's casserole.
Mom! Are you kidding? Angie did not whip the casserole nearly enough! There were lumps!
But you guys were so convincing...
Mom, you taught us not to hurt anyone's feelings—what else could we say???
At this I laughed, and after reassuring my guys that I'd never repeat that mistake, waves of tension, crackling through the air, relaxed as my guys laughter matched mine.
So anyway, now that I've explained why Barry needed to call for reassurance, let's continue with what eldest son feels eager to discuss, next—Who's coming, this year, Mom?
Well, let's see ... Grandma Jennie and Grandpa Jack, of course, Angie and Mark (our closest friends) with Rhino (their tall, good looking, dark haired, dark skinned, dark eyed son, one of David's best buds—whose name is not Rhino—Rhino being a nickname conferred upon him, years ago in the first grade, by Will, who nick names everyone he loves.
Barry is the big gorilla, because he grew from babe in arms into such a big, strong, tall one-year-old that our pediatrician deemed him off the charts. Steven is the little otter because he'd learned, while still crawling, to dart out of the big gorilla's grasp :) David is Pooh Bear, because he ate everything in sight, suggesting that, between infancy and preschool, he'd been as round as a bear and as sweet as honey.
As for me, Will never tires of renaming the little woman—off the top of my head, I answered to Goobers, Egor, Little Wiff and Red (Today, he calls me Pita. Why? Later—not relevant to this story :)
At that time, I had a secret nick name for the man of the house, tucked privately behind my ready smile, and if you promise not to tell anyone, ever, I'll whisper this secret into your ear. Ready? Wait—you really need to promise not to tell. Okay, here goes: Somewhere deep inside a pocket of my mind, where it had been my habit to warehouse frustration after mustering the courage to actually air my unmet needs aloud, I'd begun to see my husband, the surgeon as—Dr. No—owing to the frequency with which my mind felt stymied and my heart pierced by the regularity of Will's strong-willed, no nonsense replies. So let's see, where was I before digressing—Oh yesI was naming our
guests for Barry.
In addition to my mom and dad, Angie, Mark and Rhino, we'd invited Angie's niece, visiting from Philly, whom we'd yet to meet. Next, I mention Steven's law school buddy, who's also new to us, and my niece, her husband and three year old son, suggesting that, along with our family of five, we'll extend our table to accommodate a grand total of fifteen.
Wow, that's great, Mom! And in answer to Barry's exclamation of: I sure do love this holiday! I reply, Me too—I just hope that none of us end up in the ER, like three of us did, last year! Upon hearing this, we both laugh, because in recent years, our Thanksgivings have proven to be injurious in unexpected ways ...
As we do not own a crystal ball, neither Barry nor I have any clue concerning the fright that's in store for our family once we polish off this year's feast, which I've already begun to prepare and freeze in anticipation of the feeding frenzy that takes place each time we open our door and our smiles welcome an expansive assortment of guests, who can't help but salivate upon getting a whiff of mouth-watering aromas wafting through the air ...
Had you been one of our guests, that night, this scene would meet your eye: Family and friends, made up of four generations, numbering fifteen is gathered round our elaborately decorated table, enjoying each other's company while indulging in a mouth-watering array of favorite dishes, which remains unchanging, year after year (inclusive of this year (2013), for this reason: Every one of my harmonic quartet of men has a favorite dish, which must be served or someone's smile will surely turn upside down, and you already know that Annie can't stand to know that she may in any way feel responsible for a loved one's frown. So when, in eager anticipation of flying home for that particular holiday weekend, Barry calls from D. C. (several days before boarding his plane) to say ... Mom, you're making the sweet potatoes, this year, right? Right! Oh good! And when you make the sweet potato casserole, you'll be sure to watch it carefully so the marshmallows don't burn, right? At this, Annie simply laughs and congenially replies ... No worries, Barry, I learned both of my lessons, last year! No one else will make our favorite dishes, and no burnt marshmallows will mar the perfection of this year's feast, I can safely promise you that! Thanks, Mom ... and you'll never let anyone else make the casserole, right? Laughing again, I reassure my eldest son, who—one day in the future when I am in too much pain to stand—will choose to whip up this casserole for 35 guests with help from his brothers rather than take a chance that someone else might screw it up.
In case you wonder why Barry feels the need to call for reassurance before flying home, let me explain what had taken place the previous year: My dear friend, Angie, asked to take on more responsibility for creating this festive feast for this reason: At that time, all of the holidays occurred at my house, because our home offered ample space to accommodate our ever-increasing clan. Angie knew that, though I live with chronic nerve pain, nothing stops me from preparing holidays that serve up joy to so many. And as my dear friend and her family loved to share holidays with us, she was looking to take good care of me. Therefore, with appreciation for her heartfelt sensitivity, I handed her the recipe for my menfolk's beloved sweet potato casserole.
At the end of that feast, Angie asked my men ... so how was my first try at your Mom's recipe? When everyone chimed in with great job, Angie turned to me and declared: Okay Annie, from now on I'll bring the turkey, stuffing and sweet potatoes ... Then we hugged and kissed and said good night.
No sooner did I close the front door than my quartet of men swooped down like a flock of wing-flapping roosters, peeking at my head while crowing aloud ... MOM! YOU CAN'T LET ANYONE EVER MAKE ANY OF OUR FAVORITE DISHES, AGAIN!
WHAT? I asked, utterly shocked. I thought you loved Angie's casserole.
Mom! Are you kidding? Angie did not whip the casserole nearly enough! There were lumps!
But you guys were so convincing...
Mom, you taught us not to hurt anyone's feelings—what else could we say???
At this I laughed, and after reassuring my guys that I'd never repeat that mistake, waves of tension, crackling through the air, relaxed as my guys laughter matched mine.
So anyway, now that I've explained why Barry needed to call for reassurance, let's continue with what eldest son feels eager to discuss, next—Who's coming, this year, Mom?
Well, let's see ... Grandma Jennie and Grandpa Jack, of course, Angie and Mark (our closest friends) with Rhino (their tall, good looking, dark haired, dark skinned, dark eyed son, one of David's best buds—whose name is not Rhino—Rhino being a nickname conferred upon him, years ago in the first grade, by Will, who nick names everyone he loves.
Barry is the big gorilla, because he grew from babe in arms into such a big, strong, tall one-year-old that our pediatrician deemed him off the charts. Steven is the little otter because he'd learned, while still crawling, to dart out of the big gorilla's grasp :) David is Pooh Bear, because he ate everything in sight, suggesting that, between infancy and preschool, he'd been as round as a bear and as sweet as honey.
As for me, Will never tires of renaming the little woman—off the top of my head, I answered to Goobers, Egor, Little Wiff and Red (Today, he calls me Pita. Why? Later—not relevant to this story :)
At that time, I had a secret nick name for the man of the house, tucked privately behind my ready smile, and if you promise not to tell anyone, ever, I'll whisper this secret into your ear. Ready? Wait—you really need to promise not to tell. Okay, here goes: Somewhere deep inside a pocket of my mind, where it had been my habit to warehouse frustration after mustering the courage to actually air my unmet needs aloud, I'd begun to see my husband, the surgeon as—Dr. No—owing to the frequency with which my mind felt stymied and my heart pierced by the regularity of Will's strong-willed, no nonsense replies. So let's see, where was I before digressing—Oh yesI was naming our
guests for Barry.
In addition to my mom and dad, Angie, Mark and Rhino, we'd invited Angie's niece, visiting from Philly, whom we'd yet to meet. Next, I mention Steven's law school buddy, who's also new to us, and my niece, her husband and three year old son, suggesting that, along with our family of five, we'll extend our table to accommodate a grand total of fifteen.
Wow, that's great, Mom! And in answer to Barry's exclamation of: I sure do love this holiday! I reply, Me too—I just hope that none of us end up in the ER, like three of us did, last year! Upon hearing this, we both laugh, because in recent years, our Thanksgivings have proven to be injurious in unexpected ways ...
As we do not own a crystal ball, neither Barry nor I have any clue concerning the fright that's in store for our family once we polish off this year's feast, which I've already begun to prepare and freeze in anticipation of the feeding frenzy that takes place each time we open our door and our smiles welcome an expansive assortment of guests, who can't help but salivate upon getting a whiff of mouth-watering aromas wafting through the air ...
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