The dozen neighbors and old friends, of course, canceled coming for Thanksgiving dinner. So did Janis’s daughter with her two teenage offspring and her Forever Fiancé, all of whom live just down the road. Nevertheless, we were still expected to provide them with the works: The choicest morsels of sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, three different stuffings (oyster, sage, and cornbread), cooked and raw cranberry sauces, and their share of Paul’s perfect gravy. Paul and Melissa carefully packed and wrapped everything so the Millennials wouldn’t even have to reheat it.
Perhaps they were expecting us to deliver it, as well, but then the Forever Fiancé showed up at the back door, alone, in flannel pajamas and, with an apologetic smirk, carried the shopping bags stuffed with food off to his car, and instantly disappeared.
We were disappointed and, frankly, our feelings were really hurt that none of the next generation(s) had accompanied the FF to collect the holiday feast, to at least wave at us from the driveway and shout thanks to the parents who’d paid for everything, and the family friends who’d cooked it all. We were people they’d known forever, but there were no shared laughs, no Cajun jokes, no recalling that Christmas in the snow in Salzburg when these grandchildren were just kids.
I was glad we’d short-changed them on pie. Now we could have seconds for Friday breakfast.
Like an Agatha Christie novel, we were down to five (from 18) when we finally collapsed in front of our dashed 2022 Thanksgiving dinner, which had moved from the elegantly set dining room to the kitchen table. Nobody remembered to make biscuits. Still, without Terry to do dishes, the clean-up was staggering.
The Day After Thanksgiving, Janis did not come down for breakfast. She called down instructions to feed the dogs. Positive, 3 (Terry, Chris, Janis), Negative, 4. There would be no girls-lunch-out, no second opinions on marked-down boots and leggings.
We decided to pull the plug and drive home, with both of us testing negative for Covid at our half-way hotel, although Rudy hardly touched the lovely leftovers. Suspicious! And as he turned into our driveway, he confessed he felt sick. Final Score, Positive, 4, Negative, 3.
***
So that was Thanksgiving 2022—a total washout—and now Thanksgiving 2023 was fast approaching. I’d dropped $1,700 on upgrading the guest room beds to XL everything, $175 on a major prime tenderloin, not to mention the various reds, whites, and proseccos. I swore I wouldn’t buy the 14-pound turkey until the last minute, but I still came home with 10-pound bags of onions, potatoes, sugar, and flour, and four pounds of fresh cranberries.
It’s now the Monday before Thanksgiving 2023. And the phone is ringing. I know in my gut that our best laid plans are about to go belly up. Again. But this time, C isn’t for Covid, it’s for “cancer.” We’ll take any Thanksgiving we can get for 2024.
Brooke is on her third recipe for the cranberries in her freezer.
