HUMOR | HOLIDAYS

Thank You for the Great Food and the Stupid Arguments

Remembering Thanksgiving with my family

Thanksgiving means two things for most people. Great food and family conflict. In my case, Grandma Marian provided both.

My grandmother meant well, and she was an incredible cook. But she was also intrusive, overbearing, opinionated, and blunt. After listening to her for years, my dad and my grandfather could lose their patience with her in an instant. And when they did, my sisters and I couldn’t keep ourselves from laughing. This rarely improved the situation.

Every Thanksgiving, the same scenario played out between my dad and my grandmother. As far as I could tell, neither of them realized this was an annual event. I certainly did. In fact, my dog Charlie and I always looked forward to it.

When we went to my grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving, our dog always went with us. As my grandmother prepared the meal, she would set aside a generous portion of meat and other scraps for Charlie. Naturally, he loved it. The comedy began as soon as she set the plate down.

As the dog devoured his banquet, Grandma Marian looked on with an increasingly disturbed expression. It never took her long to summon my father.

“Pinky?” My grandmother called.

Pinky was my dad’s childhood nickname. As a grown man, my father hated the name, but that’s what his mother called him.

Dad always ignored her first summons.

“Pinky?” A little louder this time. More insistent.

Still no response.

“Pinky!” This time, she’s very loud and very insistent.

My grandmother had a very pronounced Southern accent. My dad did not. When he was pissed off at her, however, he would suddenly develop one. Particularly when he said the word Mama.

Already irritated, my father entered the kitchen.

“What, Mama?”

“Pinky, are you feeding this dog?”

Instantly enraged, my father’s face turned beet red.

“Of course, I’m feeding the dog, Mama!”

For my grandmother’s next line, she always dialed the melodrama up to eleven. This was something she was especially good at.

“Well, I fixed this plate for him, and he scarfed it down like he hasn’t eaten a day in his life!”

This made my dad livid! So livid, in fact, that he stuttered a bit in getting his response out.

“Mama, you’re giving him ham…and…and…and…and…turkey…and…and…and…all kinds of other crap! How do you expect him to act, Mama!?!”

With that, my father would end the discussion by storming back to the living room.

Grandma Marian was far from satisfied. She’d study the dog as he continued to lick his long-empty plate, muttering things like, “You sure seem hungry to me. I hope you’re getting fed.”

What made the situation more comical, was my dog’s physique. My father spoiled the crap out of Charlie, giving him premium food and custom-cut soup bones from the butcher.

Charlie looked nothing like a dog that was missing meals.

In fact, he was supposed to be on a veterinarian-ordered diet.