By CHARLES FERRUZZA
No, that's not my family in the photograph.
My raucous family was never that quietly composed (or zombie-like, whichever you prefer) as we gathered around the Thanksgiving table. And we did have better china. The photo, which culinary author Lou Jane Temple found in a flea market, did remind me of Tolstoy's famous line: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
I've had more than my share of awful Thanksgivings.
My mother wasn't a very good cook (her turkey was usually so dry that you choked trying to swallow it), and the family dynamics between my parents and my grandmother and her sixth (or seventh, we still aren't sure) husband left a lot to be desired. It wasn't unusual for someone to be in tears before my grandmother's latest cake from a "brand-new recipe" — horrible! — was served. Sometimes the person in tears was me.
But those aren't really horror stories. Not like the time I decided to make Thanksgiving dinner for ten friends and nearly severed my finger cutting up celery for the dressing. While my friends ate a lovely dinner, I ate a granola bar in the emergency room. But I did get the leftovers.
Friends, here's the place to unload those tales of Thanksgiving misery -- which I'm sure are better than mine. I'm sure other Fat City readers will love hearing about them as much as I will!
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One year my two sisters and I met in our parents home to share a Thanksgiving lovefest. I am the only son. I was the one emotionally and verbally abused by both parents. My older sister resented my father for his insensitivity at the time of her first husband's death some 20 years earlier. My younger sister seems to have escaped our childhood and is a productive and emotionally secure person. We all live far apart, save for Mom and Dad.
So far, so good. We share laughs. My father can only remember all of my mistakes and we all laugh heartily about the stories.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving Dinner, at my request we are having prime rib. We all agree that turkey sucks. We sit down. Pass dishes. Make yummy sounds.
I take my first bite of meat. It lodges at the bottom of my esophogus. I am a fast eating pig by the way. Before I notice the stuck meat I have already followed with another large bite of meat and some mashed potatoes. I wash this down with water, big gulps. Kaphloooom!!! There is no place for the water to go but back out the entrance. I spit water all over my plate. I am unable to catch my breath...with all the water coming up. I stand up and make 'blahk, blahk' sounds. Both of my sisters jump up and attempt the heimlich. Neither have arms long enough to reach around my chest. My older sister begins punching me in the gut attempting to dislodge (i guess). Her punches feel like a 4 year old is throwing ping pong balls at me.
While I am being wrestled and beaten by my sisters I am truly in a panic. I have yet to secure a breathing pattern. My parents are sitting motionless, still in their dinner chairs. I am pointing to my Dad's face and then pointing to the phone on the wall. I do this motion several times. He is froze and NEVER understands that I am instructing him to call 911. I point to my Mom's face then to the phone. She does not move. I don't even think she blinked. I push my sisters away and begin to catch my breath.
I am in excrutiating pain. The meat stuck at the very bottom of my esophogus is lodged and my body's natural response is to apply internal pressure to push it through to my stomach and to create gobs of flem to lubricate.
Once I start breathing, my father starts asking me if I want to go to the doctor. I am staring, breathing, and he is asking me if I want to go to the doctor. HELL YES I DO.
As we walk to the car the food dislodges. We return to the house and sit at the table.
All of these events occured within 2 minutes.
Sitting at the table, no one is interested in eating. My older sister goes out on the enclosed porch and returns with a small yellow coffee cup. Within minutes she is in tears of fear and laughter. Not the normal kind.
We all decide to go visit 92 yr old Grandmother in the care home. As we ride we all begin to notice the older sister's increasing level of intoxication. A 30 minute ride gave her plenty of time to medicate. She reveals that she has a poem she wrote and plans to read to Grandma. Keep in mind, when she drinks her persona and voice mimic a 9 year old girl.
Grandma is precious. She has her wits but is woefully deaf and lulls in and out of sleep.
My drunk sister whips our a full page,single space poem and begins reading it to Grandma. We all smell the booze and notice the girly recitation. The parents have exited the room, finding their oldest's child's behavior to be unbearable.
I am standing at Grandma's feet. My younger sister is near her legs. The POET is near her shoulder. Grandma is propped up with pillows. Younger sister and I are making small talk with Grandma all the while the POET is in full recitation. Grandma gets a pained look on her face and in her weak voice says "please go, go." Younger and I gave her a squeeze on the foot and leg and then immediately realized that Grandma was having an unfortunate unplanned shit. We exited immediately.
The poet continued reading the poem as us siblings moved to the hallway. We listened as the drunken poet continued to recite the poem amid her own gagging and awking. The recitation sounded like a person being squeezed against a wall by an elephant. "Ahhgg, uhhhjjj, the doves...uh, uh." My parents had shown up in the hallway and we all were bent over laughing so hard we were dead silent. Finally we heard "grandma, grandma, uhgg uhgg..." The Poet emerged from the room red faced and gasping.
It's not over yet.
The staff cleaned Grandma up and brought her out to the visiting area. She laughed and apologized. We treated her like a queen. The Poet sat down beside her and started the entire poem over again. It was brutal.
As we exited, I got to the car first and found several more gulps of booze in the coffee mug. I poured it out on the grass.
During the exit ride from the parking lot I heard the poet say "hey, that's not nice."
When we got home my father gave me a hug for the first time in my 33 years of life.
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