This year, my hubby and I will be avoiding the Thanksgiving
traffic jams, and are opting to stay home for Turkey day. We’re thrilled to avoid the nearly ten
hour drive to our hometown, even if it does mean missing out on time with our
loved ones. And it’s not like we won’t see them—the world is a better place
through the magic of Skype and FaceTime :)
When I was young, however, staying home wasn’t an
option. Oh no, every year we would
pack up the car and take the 800 mile trek up to see my mother’s family in the
suburbs of Chicago.
This was in the days before minivans, personal game
devices, and that miracle known as the DVD/TV combo. It was just me, my older
siblings, and my parents jammed into a car like the poor schmucks we were,
pretending to like travel Yatzie minus two die and lap-top card games of War and Go
Fish.
The trip seemed utterly interminable, but eventually we
would pull into my grandparents short driveway, not even coming to a full stop
before the doors were thrown open and we exploded from the car like popped
corn.
Once inside, the familiar sound of football was the
soundtrack to our reunion as everyone hugged Nana and Papa, and us kids
covertly scouted out the ever-present candy dishes. There, sugar coated gumdrops
and forbidden mini candy bars languished, calling to us like the sirens they
were. To us, the consumers of
whole wheat bread and all natural peanut butter, my grandparent’s house was the
Mecca of all things deliciously bad for us.
Wildwood cream soda would soon appear, blue and red striped
bendy straws poking from their open tops. Salami sandwiches were next, complete
with Italian dressing and insanely delicious white bread. Even as we ate these sinful treats, my
sister and I would already be focused on the next morning—Thanksgiving!—when
we’d wake up to a box of Dunkin Donuts, procured by our Papa and complete with
the cream filled powdered donuts that were surely the most wonderful things on
the planet.
With powdery lips, full
bellies, and the waning sounds of
the Macy’s parade in the background, we’d get ready to head to my
uncle’s
house, where even more family awaited. There, the aroma of turkey
greeted us
before we even opened the door, as did the whirl of a hand mixer and the
din of
laughter. Our cousins, seen once a year like clockwork, would greet us
at the
door, and the rest of the afternoon would be a game of dodging
responsibilities, namely setting the table and carrying folding chairs
from the basement.
The food would be plentiful, the conversation boisterous,
and the passage of time inevitable.
This yearly ritual, repeated for at least a decade, would set the bar
for Thanksgivings for the rest of my life. It’s been years since I’ve made it back to Chicago, and even
longer since I was a carefree kid, happy to enjoy the moments that would linger
in my memories for the rest of my life, but I’ll never forget those trips of
yesteryear.
This year, I may not repeat the traditions of my childhood,
but I’ll certainly be thinking about them. As my husband and dear friend
join me at my own dining room table, I’ll be happy to make more memories to
look back on years from now. Although. . . just for fun, I may see if I can talk my
husband into an early morning Dunkin Donuts run ;)
What are your favorite Thanksgiving memories? Do you have a
certain food or dish that takes you back? And are you planning on braving the holiday traffic to visit others this year?
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