My Thanksgivings resembled The Twilight Zone where strange things happen. Equipment, if capable of failing, failed when needed the most. Mayhem surrounded my house making me feel jinxed, and Rod Sterling was nowhere around to rescue me.
Wednesday was a fun pie, side dish wine day, and my best friend and cousins all showed up for our annual cooking fest. Cousin Dan arrived, margarita glass in hand, barely making it through the door when the toilet broke. Luckily, Dan is my own personal, quick-draw Paladin, “Have Toolbox – Will Travel,” and fixed the toilet while downing two margaritas. Pies were ready to bake but the oven was not cooperating. In a flash, I was on the phone, begging for service – learning tears and tipping help.
The big day arrived, and the turkey was cooking slowly. Our 6pm dinner was now 8pm, but the drinks were plentiful, and my 33 guests seemed happy. “Seemed” was the misleading word because at that exact moment my son and male cousins, united in a beer frenzy, had a mini rebellion over “skanky” beer. I admitted the beer was from last Christmas but had no idea age affected beer. My experience clearly is with wine which, like me, gets better with age. Their complaints resulted in a $100.00 bill flying out of my wallet, “now you see it, now you don’t,” and a ride to Walgreens, for expensive craft beers, and no change!
I relaxed thinking the “great beer debacle was over,” when the kitchen flooded. Cousin Angie was a lifesaver, diving in, repairing the leak and mopping the floor as her mother stood in a puddle mashing potatoes and laughing hysterically. All cooks were performing like an assembly line, carefully stepping over mops and rags when my girlfriend spilled turkey fat on the burner and floor, creating a smoky fire. The smoke, fire and alarm noise rapidly filled the room with well-meaning guests running from all directions screaming “fire!” My frazzled wine sipping girlfriend threw baking soda all over the oven, burner, and kitchen floor, creating an incredibly slick surface allowing any ice skater to perform a perfect triple axel, causing well-meaning fire fighters to fall, crashing into the refrigerator. A major clean-up ensued as beer brain bodies were rescued from the floor.
Over the years, I have had a love hate relationship with electric knives which I compare to men. History proved both were incredibly undependable and seldom satisfied expectations. One minute they were performing, and the next minute, two 12” stainless steel blades were flying across the kitchen narrowly missing my guests heads as they ran for cover. Thankfully, there were no decapitations, but the electric knife was pronounced DOA. I sent my son to Walgreens, our new, favorite Thanksgiving store and he returned with a petite box holding a dainty-looking, battery powered knife. I looked at the 22-pound turkey and the freakishly small knife visualizing starving guests, standing around the island, gnawing on a turkey carcass. My carving time had tripled. Turkeys like fine wine require time, and Grandma Happy(me), cooks with a glass in one hand, and spoon in the other just like my bestie! However, my bestie had not eaten anything all day, and when she sat down to take her first bite of her dinner, her face landed into her mashed potatoes. Her husband lovingly picked her up and carried her to the bedroom leaving a trail of turkey gravy. An hour later she was bright-eyed and bushytailed enjoying pecan pie.
This was my life before I married Daryl, and this was the Thanksgiving forever known as the year of “The Bob’s.” I had two friends, with nowhere to go for the holidays, and invited them to dinner. One I called “Dancing Bob” because he was a great dancer. The other I called “Pilot Bob.” I had also married a Bob and dated Bobs. My family was confused at times, but no one was more confused than my 5-year-old granddaughter, Jordan. My female cousins were impressed seeing two Bob’s washing and drying Kathy’s dishes. They decided every woman should have two Bob’s and maybe it was not the wine keeping Grandma Happy so “happy.” At the end of the evening, out of the mouth of babes, a very serious Jordan made a profound statement. Shaking her finger at me she said, “Grandma, I really love you, but please, no more Bobs! You need to find a boyfriend with a different name.” Three days later, I met Daryl. Shortly later, Jordan asked Daryl if he would marry her grandma Jordan and be her grandpa Daryl! To this day, Jordan always says, “I need to find a Daryl of my own!” So, God blessed me with Daryl and forever ended my Twilight Zone Thanksgivings with broken toilets, ovens, fires, floods, flying knives and “No More Bob’s!”
