Gluttony

So we all survived Thanksgiving. Which, in my mind, is a plus. I was able to start reading a new book which, in my mind, is a plus. Here’s the recap. Starting tomorrow, no more of this mundane, shot-by-shot, “picture of life” crap. Promise.

We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving lunch. Which meant we were up at the crack of dawn doing things to a turkey corpse that I never thought I would do. It’s strange, but if I were sticking my hand in the gut of any other dead animal I would be horrified. But if I call it “food” then it’s all good. I don’t get it.

But, the good news is the turkey turned out beautifully. Gorgeous, as a matter of fact.

Of course, by the time my wife and I sat down to eat, the food was cold and my in-laws were already leaving the table. It reminded me very much of my childhood, where it was every man for themselves. There were no second servings in my family. May God have mercy on your soul if you happened to be at the end of the serving line. You’d get a tablespoon of potatoes, three peas and a dollop of cold gravy with a hair in it. You look down the table and see your brothers and sisters with plates full of enough food to choke the entire Bolivian Navy. And they were all eating as if the world were about to end in five minutes.

The sight was bad enough. But the sound of twelve people eating as fast as possible is horrifying.

And as soon as the meal had begun, we all started arguing over pudding skins. That was my childhood.

The highlight, at least for my wife, was when her not-so-world-wise brother accepted a glass of wine by asking: “What proof is it?”

My wife’s only response was, “Um, what? I don’t know. Would you be more comfortable with grape juice?” My other brother-in-law, who is a little more traveled, eschewed the “dinky” wine glass and drank his wine out of a large drinking glass.

“Hey,” my wife said, “do you just want a paper bag to wrap around the bottle?”

Meanwhile, the kids were drunk on pie. Bouncing off the walls in their best attempts at impressing “Grumpa” with their best tricks. Grumpa, meanwhile, desperately wanted to go to sleep.

Later in the day we went to my family’s for the same event. Many of the same events unfolded there as well. Except we know our liquor. My nephew, in a desire to out-beer me, was showing off his import beer. I was very proud of him. He’s giving up the typical piss-water combinations that most American males worship and trying something a little higher in quality.

Honestly, I don’t understand why people make fun of me for drinking good beer. If I brought over a really nice bottle of wine instead of drinking Mad Dog, no one would care. But bring a nice six pack of Boulevard Pale Ale and everyone teases you for being a beer snob, or worse. When, in reality, they just can’t handle the stronger taste. Wimps. Heh.

The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Did some shopping, watched some Two Towers extras, finished watching Taken (ending sucked), Matilda had a cousin over for a sleepover on Friday . . . Typical stuff really.

But the highlight came on Friday morning when we had our first snow of the year. Sort of. If you consider six flakes per square foot a “snow”. However, in the midst of the raging flurry, the girls were running around in circles squealing in joy. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

Sigh. Do you remember those days? When the promise of snow meant a few days of frozen, outdoors, childish debauchery? Snow in your pants, wet sneakers, red cheeks and the promise of mom making a hot cup of cocoa to make you happy? That wonderful feeling of your cold-tightened skin warming by the glowing heating register? The smell of wool gloves drying in the forced air heat?

Now when I see snow, I think if backaches, salt on my car, slick roads. It’s just not the same.

But the girls, they have a purity of joy. It was marvelous to see.

And finally, the heart-breaking moment of the four-day weekend. We were standing in the kitchen on Sunday night. Matilda was at her bio-dad’s, so it was just Mommy, Baby and me. Most of the weekend, Gertrude was being Daddy’s little girl. Always choosing me over anything else. It was great.

We were making dinner. “Up,” she demanded. So I picked her up. Then, a strange look drifted over her face. She looked suspiciously at her mom.

“Don’t take my daddy away,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Mom responded, “I won’t.”

And she hugged me.

That sound of shattering glass you heard was my heart breaking into a million pieces.

But in a good way.

Discuss