Thanksgiving is meant to be a celebratory time, of when the Pilgrims were helped by the Native Americans and there was a horn o’plenty of food. It was a good harvest, and along with eating there were three days of games and social cooperation. Peace among the people, eating together and sharing alike. No one cared that you called it corn and another called it maize. The feast was delicious and it filled your belly; and it was a time that would go down in history.
Giving of what you have to others should bring out some warm fuzzy feelings of love for one another. And Thanksgiving can do that, except when someone reaches across the table and asks another to “pass the dressing, please.” And that person a few chairs down sends a bottle of Wish-bone Green Goddess back their way.
“Excuse me, I asked for the dressing.”
“Right. And so there you go–dressing.”
“No, the dressing. The side dish there, the savory croutons drowned in butter. Please.”
“That would be stuffing. You want stuffing.”
“No, it’s dressing. My mother called it dressing. Pass the dressing, please.”
“Dressing is salad dressing. That’s what I gave you. If it’s stuffing you want, I can give you stuffing.”
“I don’t call it stuffing. Stuffing is made inside the bird. This was made on the side. I’d like that bowl of dressing that was made outside of the turkey. Please.” [Read more...]
Growing up in a small house as part of a large family means one thing: never any time alone. There is always some sibling in your business, some person taking you on for that last fish stick. Solitude and silence become the things you pray for at night, forget world peace in your whispered requests — it’s a piece of time to yourself that you want.
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