MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / December 5, 1999

It was a very quiet Thanksgiving this year. We entertained only half thepeople we normally do. My husband’s entire family moved to his nephew’snew house out of town for their festivities. And just when things werebeginning to get interesting.

Last year his niece showed up with a pierced tongue, a fact that did not go unnoticed by my brother’s fundamentalist family. I caught a few quietmurmurings between their children, but at least they were polite enough to whisper. This would not have been the case for my Uncle DeliberateInsult.

Let’s call him Del for short. To my great relief, Uncle Del was unable toattend last year.

Uncle Del, even at 80, reminds me of a naughty boy who meanders through a crowd of people with little firecrackers in his pocket. When he sees anopportunity to wreak some havoc, his mischievous grin spreads to a smile of glee as he pulls one out, lights it, and throws it into the unsuspecting group of people. He needs no actual firecrackers; he hurls insults instead.For example, he greeted me at the door with a comment about the door, and kissed me with the remark, “I see you’re still exercising regularly.” Itold him to have a glass of wine so he’d lose his inhibitions. He hadn’tbeen inside for even a full minute. Yes indeed, Uncle Del would have had afield day with my husband’s pierced niece.

As it was this year, he had to settle for zingers about the food, which, as a collective lot, seemed a little off. Since most of the food came fromhere, there’s a whole, whole lot of it still here. For lunch yesterday Ihad a plate of leftovers I could only dream about as a child.

We were a family of nine, and additional relatives made for a very large Thanksgiving feast. At the end of it all, there was very little left over.The only food of significant quantity was what no one liked too much. Thebest stuff was wrapped in little foil packets, and I do mean little; some containing only a few tablespoons.

The day for Thanksgiving leftovers was announced immediately, and my siblings and I looked forward to it with great anticipation. The air washighly competitive as we sat down. Too bad Jesus didn’t make house callswith His loaves-and -the-fishes trick. My mother had quite a task beforeher, dividing three tablespoons nine ways.

If Thanksgiving made everyone wish they had eaten less, Thanksgiving leftover day made everyone wish they could have eaten more.

This annual post Thanksgiving trauma of teaspoon sized servings had left me with a lifelong desire to have unrestricted access to leftovers, so when the Thanksgiving Feast was opened to a new host, I was delighted that my husband grabbed it, even for his own reasons.

So now, instead of just bringing a dish to someone else’s house, our Thanksgiving preparations consist of finishing house projects that we’ve put off for a year. Last year we removed a door and replaced it with awindow. The day before Thanksgiving I was re-upholstering dining roomchairs.

This year’s before Thanksgiving projects included finally painting the spot from last Thanksgiving’s changes and slip-covering two other chairs. Mysister remarked on the newly covered chairs as she walked in. She askedmy daughter, “When did your Mom do that?” My daughter replied sweetly, “This morning,” as though everyone is doing upholstery work Thanksgiving morning.But it all got done, and we even looked more organized than usual; certainly more organized than the year my husband baked his own bread Thanksgiving morning. There were piles of dough still rising as guestsarrived.

My husband was undaunted by that, as he was about the fact that his family did not join us this year. Their absence meant that the specialtraditional family dressing from his side was not at our table. (This dogate lighter this year.) Still, my beloved spouse had many things to be thankful for. As I did.Especially that Uncle Deliberate Insult missed the pierced tongue.

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