Written by Michael Claxton
remember the worst Thanksgiving we ever had. Our family invited one of my dad’s employees — a single man — to join us for the meal.My family has always had a soft spot for single men, thankfully. This guy in turn invited his mother to come along, which was fine with us. But as it turns out, his mother had just begun a major diet, and with the zeal of a new convert, she spent the entire meal denouncing the evils of salt, sugar, enriched flour and just about everything else we were serving. I think she may even have disapproved of the carrots.We all listened politely, though at one point I may have interrupted to ask someone to pass the pork-fat gravy. She certainly meant well, but we have screened our Thanksgiving guest list more carefully since then.I thought about that story last year, which was the first Thanksgiving at home that I have missed in 37 years. I was in England and had a grand feast with our group in a quaint London flat overlooking the postal strike, but I did feel a pang of regret to be so far from Georgia on my favorite holiday. It seemed a shame to break four decades of homebound tradition. While I don’t remember much about my first Thanksgiving in 1972, I seem to recall looking over the savory spread and thinking that I had wasted the first eight months of my life on 2 percent milk.Incidentally, now that I’m down to 1 percent milk, I’m really starting to reassess my priorities. I think I’m just a half a percent away from drinking diet air.Anyway, I’m really looking forward to going back home for Thanksgiving this year, especially since the rest of the holiday season may be a wash. I completely missed Halloween because I didn’t get the memo that the city of Searcy rescheduled it from Sunday to Saturday. Incidentally, the city council is considering switching Christmas around in case of rain, and I hear New Years’ has been canceled until the budget crisis is over. Groundhog Day and Valentine’s Day will be reversed, which means that if the groundhog sees his shadow, I’ll have six more weeks of bachelorhood. Of course, it really doesn’t matter to me what day we exchange Christmas gifts. Now that I have a mortgage, I’ll be giving everyone in my family a framed 8×10 photo of the nine square inches of my house that I own so far.This gift won’t be as bad, though, as what we got the year that my father did his Christmas shopping at Texaco. My dad, you should understand, has given some fabulous gifts in the past. One year he taped hidden cash to the inside of the wrapping paper on everyone’s gift, and when one person discovered the bounty, the rest of us dove into the wadded-up piles on the floor like they were coated with marshmallows.But my father also greatly dislikes the mall and sometimes waits until the very last minute to do his shopping. So he panicked one year at Christmas Eve, and when he stopped for gas on the way home from work, he loaded up on die-cast commemorative Texaco trucks, one for each of us. Mom was especially thrilled with hers.That’s what I love about the holidays: quirky stories, warm togetherness and good food. This Thanksgiving I hope my sister-in-law will bring her chocolate Melba cake, which comes complete with a blood-sugar testing kit. And surely her mother will bake that legendary dressing. Mom will make a sweet potato casserole that serves as both a side-dish and a dessert. I will even lend my culinary expertise (What percent of milk goes best with Pop-Tarts?). And you’re invited to come to Georgia to join us. That is, unless you’re on a diet. In that case, we’ll send you an 8×10 of what you missed.
