Thanksgiving is normally a tolerable holiday. It involves minimal cooking on my part (or, if I'm making my requested dish, fresh cranberry relish*, it involves no cooking at all) and only moderate driving. Seventy miles each way sure beats the 18-hour commute from Connecticut...
This year, tolerance was not on the menu. It was only the three of us this year, so there were fewer bodies to deflect the tension. Bad idea. I knew a cloud of melancholy would hang over the table since it's only been three weeks since my grandmother died. I was ready for that. I also expected the folks to be a bit gloomy because, in true southern style, they are displeased that their beloved college football team has a horrible season and just fired their coach. I cannot fathom why this is remotely important to them, but still, in an effort to stoke the fires of safe conversational topics, I willingly discussed football with them to the extent that my limited knowledge could sustain it. The conversation, not unlike a badly built campfire, dwindled in minutes.
But what I had not adequately braced myself for was the vicious political attacks. I hoped, foolishly, that a holiday truce would be declared - and honored. Wrong. My right-wing lunatic mother - whose intolerance for my political views is legendary (the woman makes Bill O'Reilly seem taciturn and respectful) - set a new record: I had been in the house all of 7 minutes when she launched into a diatribe. Seeing my tote bag (which was on the floor ten feet away, not even facing her) she hissed, "Take that off!" Having just arrived, I'm thinking, "My fleece? Um, okay..." But instead, I asked, "Take what off?" Thus began Round 1 of the heavyweight holiday political jabfest.
"That Obama-Biden button," she said, disdain dripping from every syllable. I had no idea she had seen it, what with it being on the front of my tote bag which was facing away from her and was now completely covered by my jacket. She had obviously been looking for something to bitch about. Oh, let me tell you: that was a monumentally bad idea. Everybody knows you don't provoke a mean dog and you don't start fights with bullies. And you certainly don't push my political buttons the day after I've had a second root canal in as many weeks and I haven't had my first dose of prescription Vicodin because I can't drive under its influence. But she did...oh, man, did she ever. I went from zero to bitch in roughly 2.3 seconds.
"No, ma'am, I will NOT remove that button. It remains on my bag just as the bumper sticker remains on my car. I am entitled to my own views and opinions, thankyouverymuch," I replied.
"Not in my house, you're not," she replied. So many things went through my head, but I bit my tongue.
She must have seen the warning shots fired from my eyes as I reached for the keys in my bag. My look said, "Keep it up and I'll drive home and you can sulk into your turkey without me." Since she hasn't spoken to my brother in at least 5 years, it would be a sad little holiday if she kept up the taunting.
I thought she let it go, so I proceeded to start making dessert. But nooooo...
She kept harping until I reached critical mass. Over the din of the football game blaring from the TV in the kitchen and the sound of her furiously stirring the mashed potatoes, I calmly stated, "Well, mother, he's going to be your president in exactly 54 days, so it does you no good to start an argument." Then I smiled and pretended, to the best of my ability, that she wasn't standing in front of me, snarling.
The rest of the evening went smoothly. I placated both parents with a homemade dessert and two hours of audio entertainment courtesy of The Vinyl Cafe CD of Holiday Stories. (Note to all members of dysfunctional families: it's hard for anyone to stay in a pissy mood when they're laughing hysterically to the tales of Dave and Morley.) But when it was time to leave, the terrible twosome of right-wing zealotry took a few more cheap shots about the president's so-called disputed citizenship and how the country is going to hell...blah, blah, blah.
I didn't wait around for proper farewells. I grabbed my leftovers and hightailed it home, where I could self-medicate into oblivion. It's sad (though quite common among my friends) that you'd rather spend a holiday at home with a bottle of Vicodin than tolerate a family gathering because your family drives you mad...
One holiday down; two more to go...
*Fresh Cranberry Relish (serves 12)
2 bags fresh whole cranberries
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 cups chopped nuts (pecans or walnuts)
juice from 2 large oranges
zest from 2 large oranges
2T pumpkin pie spice (or nutmeg & cinnamon)
1/2 cup Grand Marnier
Chop cranberries in food processor.
Add remaining ingredients.
Adjust sugars & liqueur to taste.
Store for several hours before serving.
(Even better if made 1-2 days before.)
Serve chilled.
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