I’ll never forgot the Thanksgiving I was in “The Twilight Zone.” Appliances and toilets failed, and mayhem surrounded me, and Rod Sterling was not around to help. Wednesday was always a fun pie and side dish cooking fest. The first sign of trouble was when the toilet broke. Frantically, I called Cousin Dan who arrived, margarita in one hand and toolbox in the other. Dan was the fix it man. “Have Toolbox – Will Travel.” The toilet was repaired in the time it took Dan to down 2 Margaritas. Then I noticed the pies in the oven weren’t cooking. In a flash, I was on the phone, begging and pleading for service. Tears and tipping helped in getting service the day before the biggest cooking day of the year.

Thursday, the turkey was roasting terribly slow. Dinner at 6pm became dinner at 8pm, but the guests seemed happy and drinks were plentiful. “Seemed” was barely out of my mouth when my son and cousins, complained the beer tasted “skanky.” I admitted the beer was from last Christmas. I didn’t know a year in the refrigerator could ruined beer. I drink wine which, gets better with age, like me! The boys shot out the door with my last $100.00 bill to buy craft beers at Walgreens and the problem was solved.

After the  “beer catastrophe,”  the kitchen sink rebelled from too many potato peelings and causied a  flood. Cousin Angie fixed the sink and mopped the floor as her mom stood in a puddle of water, mashing potatoes, laughing hysterically. All cooks were performing with  determination, stepping over mops and rags when my girlfriend spilled turkey fat in the oven, and floor, causing a  smoke-filled room, oven fire and slippery floor. Deciding baking soda would put the fire out, my frazzled, wine sipping girlfriend threw baking soda into  the oven, and floor, creating a greasy, slippery floor. The smoke alarm went off sending well-meaning guests running into the kitchen yelling “‘fire,” falling and crashing into the refrigerator. A major clean-up followed as our would-be firemen were helped up from the floor.

For years I have had a love hate relationship with electric knives. They never lasted. Being single, I compared knives to men. History proved both were incredibly undependable and seldom satisfied expectations. One minute they performed, and the next minute the  unexpected would happen like  today, when two dull  12” stainless steel blades went flying across the kitchen narrowly missing dinner guest’s heads as they ran for cover. Thankfully, there were no decapitations, but the electric knife was DOA. I sent my son to Walgreens, our favorite Thanksgiving store and he returned with a freakishly small battery powered knife. I looked first at the 22-pound turkey and then at the 10-pound turkey breast with the  petite knife in my hand and visualized starving guests, gnawing on a turkey carcass. My carving time tripled. Turkeys, like fine wine, require a long time for perfection and  Grandma Happy (me), always cooks with wine glass in one hand, and spoon in the other. My bestie had not eaten all day, and when she finally sat down to an extremely late dinner and took a bite of her mashed potatoes, her face landed in her dinner plate. Her husband lovingly picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom, leaving a trail of mashed potatoes and gravy. An hour later she was bright-eyed and bushytailed enjoying her pecan pie.

This was my last Thanksgiving before I met Daryl and was known as the year of “The Bobs.” I had two friends, with no holiday plans, 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. My family was confused with the many “Bobs” in my life, but no one was more confused than my 5-year-old granddaughter, Jordan. My female cousins were impressed watching two Bobs doing dishes. They decided every woman should have two “Bobs” and wondered if it was really  the wine that kept Grandma Happy so “happy.”  At  the end of the evening, out of the mouth of babes, a serious Jordan made a profound statement. Shaking her finger at me she said, “Grandma, no more Bobs! You need a boyfriend with another name!” Three days later, I met Daryl. When Jordan met Dary, she asked him if he would marry her grandma Jordan and be her grandpa Daryl! Jordan always says, “I need to find a Daryl of my own!”  So, God blessed me with my Daryl and put an end to my Twilight Zone Thanksgivings of broken toilets, ovens, fires, floods, flying knives and “No More Bob’s!”  Happy Thanksgiving!