Thanksgiving Dinner 1984

The kitchen was impossible. I could scarcely fix a bowl of cereal, let alone a Thanksgiving dinner for six people. What was I thinking? I vowed that once my husband got a raise in pay, and we could afford to move, I’d never live in such a tiny place again (or consider cereal an evening meal).

“This place is just darling.” My mom was the first to arrive, with my dad in tow and enough food to feed an army.

“Mom, it’s ridiculous. Who lives like this?” I leaned back against the door to let them pass.

“Well, some things are more important than size.” She handed me a Tupperware bowl.

I peeked inside. Something green to match the bowl.

“I don’t smell coffee,” Mom said. “Have you made any?”

“No, Mom, you know I never drink coffee. But I’ll make you a pot now.”

“So David’s parents aren’t here yet.” My mother continued into the so-called dining room, which in fact was a section of the living room, which, in turn, was a section of the kitchen. “Good. Then why don’t you go and change, and I’ll set the table.”

“Change? Mom, this is what I’m wearing. And as for setting the table—”

“Yes, where is the table?”

“David’s borrowing a card table from our neighbor. He’ll be back any minute.”

“You don’t have a table? How do you expect to entertain seven people—”

“We use TV trays mostly—wait, seven?”

“I invited Uncle Oscar. I thought that would be okay. Oh, and he might bring his latest girlfriend. She’s sixty if she’s day. But don’t mention anything.”

“Like what? Like she looks sixty or that Uncle Oscar is a felon.”

“He’s not a felon, Valerie. Vandalism doesn’t really count, and you know he was taking strong medication at the time. Anyway, it was years ago; why must you hold on to everything?”

I noticed that my dad, still standing by the front door, was holding a paper turkey, almost as big as a real one, with a tail made of wilted orange and yellow feathers and missing one googly eye that I had bought at the Halloween store. “I brought this,” he said, by way of explanation. I was touched. I had made Tom the Turkey when I was in grade school and had no idea my parents still had it. The sight of his Sharpie-drawn mouth, unlike any real turkey, cheered me.

“As soon as David gets back, he’ll go right in the middle of the table.” I suddenly felt like Thanksgiving in our rabbit hutch might work, despite the cramped room, Tom’s missing eye, and whatever green mushy thing my mother had brought with her. For reassurance, I opened the lid of the green bowl once more, and then quickly closed it, enjoying its familiar and comforting burp.