Thanksgiving memories: vampire pelican chez Aunt Clarabelle

dear Mr. Addams, how did he know?

With the approach of Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to my little sister, because one thing for which I'm always thankful is my sister's approach to life. She just keeps on. She showed her early promise the year my parents agreed to have Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's (Pop's older sister, to be precise). To their dying day they quarreled about who had consented to go, each blaming the other, but we went. Aunt Clarabelle was the worst cook in the family and everyone knew it.

For a 9-year-old and a 6-year-old, the whole trip meant agony - no comfy corduroy pants that could be thrown in the wash after a busy morning peeling things, no goofy table decorations, no wonderful smells from the kitchen, no lazing around on the floor watching the parade. None of Mom's ineffable gravy. No secret recipe yummy stuffing. No, no, no. The morning was spent in hair agony, Mom having decided that her sister-in-law should see us at our cutest, girliest worst. This meant long hair cylinders, that is, sausage curls, and big bows. My scalp has never forgiven her. While she was working on Little Clotilde, I brushed out my cylinders, not realizing that while the brushing might get rid of the sausages, it wouldn't make my hair go back to its normal stick-straight flatness. The sausages were replaced by something that stood up straight and - "You look like shrubbery," said Little Clotilde. I think I was hoping that if I looked weird enough Mom would leave me home.

random eBay offering of old
pic of patient little girl

Plaid dresses, Mary Janes, tights, ribbons all duly applied, a few cruel rubber bands and a lot of Brilliantine on me, we trudged out to the car. Pop was optimistically checking for flat tires, loose rim, broken tail lights. "Any cop who has to work today will be in a lousy mood," he explained. "I'd rather stay home than get into it with some $&@!?%## over nothing."

Alas the car was fine. "We who are about to die salute you," Pop declaimed as he opened the doors for his ladies. And off we went to the land of pink silk lampshades and plastic slipcovers.

Pop wrinkled his nose as we stepped indoors, nothing smelled bad, but there weren't any enticing aromas either. I thought I detected Lemon Pledge. It's a bad sign when a meal is being cooked and the family dog chooses to hang out in front of the television.

The grown-ups were issued teeny cocktails, and Little Clotilde and I were offered a choice of ginger ale or prune juice. Aunt Clarabelle was a big reader of magazines, and she shared the information that the shortcut turkey tips, the stuffing recipe, and the creatively approached side dishes were all new to the repertoire this year. Pop looked around for a larger glass, humming. "Are you humming?"

"Oh, sorry, a tune from some opera just popped into my head and now I can't get rid of it, you know how it is..." Pop had a wicked grin that we always looked forward to, here it was and Little Clotilde and I were almost dancing with anticipation.

"Don't fidget, girls, what opera?"

"Ah, Donizetti!  - ah - the magnificent Lucrezia --"

At that moment Mom grabbed us by the elbows, one a side, and bustled us to the pink-and-gold powder room to wash our hands. She used the privacy to remind us again that we were guests, we would mind our manners, we would not poke one another, we would try to eat what was put in front of us without making awful noises, and each of us would find something nice to say or allowances would be withheld.

Aunt Clarabelle had been putting finishing touches on her platters and apparently Uncle Er wasn't an opera-lover, for no one seemed to have taken offense at Pop's humming, and we were waved over to the table. Silver was gleaming, dishes were shining, laden with - hard to tell. I recognized celery and olives and a bowl of throbbing homemade cranberry relish. At the sideboard Uncle Er was trying to subdue a burnt pelican, which despite being dead, was fighting back.

Meaningful glare from Mom - my turn. "What a pretty table!"

And now for Little Clotilde: Big smile, cute little arms held out wide, "OHBOYOHBOY! Everything I don't like!"

This is a good place to stop.

Oh, right, Uncle Er. He disliked the name his parents had given him and chose one he liked better as soon as he could. Pop considered this ridiculous and refused to indulge Er by calling him by his new name, and Er refused to answer to the old one. To keep the peace, Pop just called him Er, and we children respectfully called him Uncle Er.

back by popular demand, the (slightly updated) script for a multi-cultural festive occasion

As Thanksgiving approaches we interrupt the travel report to bring you some holiday reflections. I've always loved making holiday dinners, to the point of being happily breathless when dinner's over and the floor is covered with paper, the furniture is adorned with food-based fingerprints as yet unknown to any juvenile authority, and the couches are upholstered with immovable football statisticians in snoring coma (a congenital condition attached to the Y chromosome).... well, there's a lot to be said for the gradual erosion of at least some cherished family traditions.

Our family is delightfully multi-cultural (but you knew that), so perhaps some of these traditional events may have once been yours, too:

THE FIVE TANTRUMS OF THE IN-LAWS

THE OH, SO MERRY MERRY SEATING REARRANGEMENT (an all-American folk dance)

THE RITUAL RECITATION OF FOOD ALLERGIES AND DIETETIC SENSITIVITIES  

 (often but not always a responsive reading)

THE MEAL-TIME VISIT OF THE BALD UNCLE WHO NEVER BRINGS PRESENTS

um, not exactly our house

THE FOUR MULTI-CULTURAL QUESTIONS:

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- she puts garlic in everything

-- is there garlic in this?  
         -- I can taste the garlic

-- is there garlic in this?   

        -- anyone can taste garlic in this

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- I don't know why noone else can taste garlic 

THE CRUEL BUT NECESSARY REVISITING OF FAMILY RECIPES FROM GENERATIONS PAST 
(included here: loud resumptions of the Lard/Chicken Fat Feud and the Great Butter/Olive Oil Vendetta)

THE LOUD AND PERSISTENT INTERROGATION OF SINGLE WOMEN ABOUT THEIR LIVING ARRANGEMENTS

THE DISSERTATION AND DISPUTATION CONCERNING THE PROVENANCE AND EVENTUAL DISPOSITION OF THE HOLIDAY SILVER AND SERVING DISHES 
              (a sharing of memories of the sacrifices made by our or your or 
               someone's ancestors to provide the ungrateful and unappreciative 
               with a complete service for 12 plus bread-and-butter plates and 
               2 extra cups, which will pass to the one descendant who really truly - 
               trust me - doesn't want them)

THE DEPARTURE BEFORE DESSERT OF THE SILENT COUSIN WHO ALWAYS ARRIVES ALONE

THE DARING MAN TO MAN CHALLENGE, in which the World's Greatest Expert on Everything explains in great detail, mispronouncing all names, how wars should be won, to Gallant Nephew who is just back from Afghanistan and doesn't like loud noises. Also known as the Familial Duck and Cover.

THE ORGAN RECITAL OF THE COMATOSE SPORTS FANS (featuring Uncle *** on the nose flute and Grandpa ### on the intestinal tympani)

Anything ring a bell?

Fred shops with visiting Brit: stiff upper lip at the malls. Yes, malls.

Off & running early with cousin-in-law A, who can shop for England. And has done, says she. Stores open at 8 or 9, frost or snow on parking lots, feeling seasonal. A's youngest 2 or 3 or 4 (they move fast) came along in case there was candy. By 7:30 AM, all on a sugar high, including self.

Would not let A buy elderly rose tees at nearby Crewlet, suggested driving a bit longer, pulled out map THAT I JUST HAPPENED TO HAVE, showing another Crewlet on way to four (4!) malls with J.Crew stores, which just happen to be in a straight line til no. 3, then south to no. 4, where we can finish the day at my sister's, who will feed kids a healthy dinner if it kills them. A's idea: head for sis first, drop kids, hit the JCs in reverse order, by the time we're done, sis will have had enough of little angels and will have driven them back to mine herself. A is from culture where kids go to boarding school at age 5. Obviously so moms can shop. There'll always be an England.

Embellished boy shirt (still around? why?) not a success, embellishment too heavy for thin fabric so that side of opening falls down, hiding embellishment. Thick-ish blue green pencil skirt, didn't like any tops but loved skirt, bought, will stalk blog for styling ideas. A morbidly fascinated by ruffled silk camis wasting away on clearance racks. Thin but nice choice of cute Crewcut tees. A says duffle coat wanna-be is not fashion. Belts: skinny, shiny, might serve as leashes for a Crewdle. A thrilled by “historical” teeny miniskirts (her mum saved one from a Beatles event) – but not to wear.

Malls populated but bearable. For parking, I wore Deranged Lady Who Does Not Drive Well Look (with hat) when crowded by any car that costs more than mine (meaning of course, any car), and we were fine. JC stores mysteriously empty early on, not so scary later in day. Found A's kids-- the heir, the spare and the pair (twins) – watching American football at my house, liking the big guys jumping on other big guys but not all the waiting around bits.  

Explained to A that real shoppers wait it out. Triumphantly showed off some accessories from last winter's end-of-season sales (feather & ribbon gloves, feather wristlet, jeweled cuff gloves, moonbeam sequin blazer, metallic coquette hobo), and leather lederhosen with elastic waist from this fall. Her comment: ooh, you can wear this gear to Ren Fayres! There'll always be an England. Planning to take up Alchemy now that I know what to wear. Need pointy hat. But no, A says puffy shorts, tights, booties & sequin floppy jacket are for court jester, not distinguished alchemist. Sigh. Time travel is not cheap. 

how many shopping days was that?

In which, having grimly contemplated the future of retailing as we know it, wellfedfred attempts to bring the holiday spirit to some utterly undeserving urchins:

Sometimes I shop in the country

Sometimes I shop in the town

Sometimes I feed the kids at the mall

When the sitter has let me down.

Santa’s on a beer break, 

J.Crew is empty and cold

The mall is draped in tacky, 

I’m feeling tired and old.

So home we go in traffic

No TV or X-box tonight

We’ll make Christmas lists together

And bring to our dark moods some light.

I’ve mixed a lovely eggnog (mine is stronger than the kids’)

I’ve managed to light a Yule Log and stop the “He didn’t -- you dids!”

Pencils out, paper ready, we sit down by the fire

For the kids and I and the catalogs with Santa to conspire.

(dainty sip of eggnog)

Their lists are long

But mine is longer

Their eggnog’s sweet

But mine is stronger.

(sips again)

Dear Santa, you and I have had

A long and close relation,

So if you go to J.Crew for me,

Follow instructions without variation.

(sips eggnog)

One:  no blended yarns from livestock that feel suspiciously like a cat 

Two:  no flimsy silk-ish tops that need camis, ‘cause they make me itch.

Three: no mini skirts, no leather shorts (the public will thank you for that).

Four: no falling hems, no slipping cuffs, even just by a stitch

(mmm eggnog)

No splitting seams, no fraying edges, no plastic threads -- 

And please oh please not one thing that sheds!

Oh, festive spirits, joyful smiles,

No, the kids are laughing at the catalog styles

(slllurrps eggnog)

Santa, dear, when I’m dressed up in finest holiday fettle

Don’t spoil my ensemble with mystery metal

(pours more eggnog)

Gosh, this was going to be such a sweet little list

And look at me now, I am totally p----d.

            (chugs eggnog)

Give me back that catalog, you little wretch, or I will tie a knot in the top of your stocking

And what I will tell Santa about you and your brothers will be totally shocking.

  And NO you may NOT taste my eggnog.

                  (urrpppp)

As Thanksgiving approaches we interrupt the travel report

to bring you some holiday reflections. I've always loved making holiday dinners, to the point of being happily breathless when dinner's over and the floor is covered with paper, the furniture is adorned with food-based fingerprints unknown to any juvenile authority, and the couches are upholstered with immovable football statisticians in snoring coma (a congenital condition attached to the Y chromosome)....  well, there's a lot to be said for the gradual erosion of at least some cherished family traditions. 


Our family is delightfully multi-cultural (but you knew that), so perhaps some of these may have once been yours, too:

THE FIVE TANTRUMS OF THE IN-LAWS

THE OH, SO MERRY MERRY SEATING REARRANGEMENT (an all-American folk dance)

THE RITUAL RECITATION OF FOOD ALLERGIES AND DIETETIC SENSITIVITIES  
 (often but not always a responsive reading)

THE MEAL-TIME VISIT OF THE BALD UNCLE WHO NEVER BRINGS PRESENTS

um, not exactly our house

THE FOUR MULTI-CULTURAL QUESTIONS:

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- she puts garlic in everything

-- is there garlic in this?  
         -- I can taste the garlic

-- is there garlic in this?   
        -- anyone can taste garlic in this

-- is there garlic in this?  
        -- I don't know why noone else can taste garlic 

THE CRUEL BUT NECESSARY REVISITING OF FAMILY RECIPES FROM GENERATIONS PAST 
(included here: loud resumptions of the Lard/Chicken Fat Feud and the Great Butter/Olive Oil Vendetta)


THE LOUD AND PERSISTENT INTERROGATION OF SINGLE WOMEN ABOUT THEIR LIVING ARRANGEMENTS

THE DISSERTATION AND DISPUTATION CONCERNING THE PROVENANCE AND EVENTUAL DISPOSITION OF THE HOLIDAY SILVER AND SERVING DISHES 
              (a sharing of memories of the sacrifices made by our or your or 
               someone's ancestors to provide the ungrateful and unappreciative 
               with a complete service for 12 plus bread-and-butter plates and 
               2 extra cups which will pass to the one descendant who really truly - 
               trust me - doesn't want them)

THE DEPARTURE BEFORE DESSERT OF THE SILENT COUSIN WHO ALWAYS ARRIVES ALONE

THE ORGAN RECITAL OF THE COMATOSE SPORTS FANS (featuring Uncle *** on the nose flute and Grandpa ### on the intestinal tympani)


Anything ring a bell?