The Haunting of Thanksgiving

by T. W. Brazeau



  The HAUNTING of THANKSGIVING

  By

  T. W. Brazeau

  Published by T. W. Brazeau

  Copyright 2014 T. W. Brazeau

  “Any of that turkey left, Tom?” Maryanne asked, holding up her empty plate. “I’ll have another slice. It’s just about perfect.”

  “Coming right up—just a second,” I answered, and stood to carve a few more slices. “How about a little gravy on it?”

  “Sounds good, and some of that cranberry sauce. You’ve outdone yourself; this is almost as good as Missus Gob,” she sighed nostalgically. “Remember Missus Gob, Tom?”

  “How could I forget,” I smiled. “Probably the most famous turkey of all time—at least in this family. Certainly the most delicious.”

  We were all seated around the dining room table in the old farmhouse enjoying a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner: roast turkey with all the trimmings. It was our first Thanksgiving since Mom had left us so we were feeling sad and were especially nostalgic about Thanksgivings past.

  Maryanne and Tim, along with their two little girls had joined us this year, as they usually did, back at the old farm where Maryanne and I had grown up and where I still lived with Jeanine and the two boys. It was good to get together with my sister and her family, but it was a small gathering compared with the Thanksgiving crowds Mom used to cook for.

  “Who is Missus Gob?” asked Cherie, Maryanne’s oldest. “I never heard of Missus Gob.”

  “Well, Missus Gob was the best turkey we ever had. And that was the Year of the Ghost. Tell them the story, Tom,” Maryanne urged. “They should know it, it’s part of family history. And it happened right here in this house.” She turned to Cherie. “I was just about your age that year and I remember all of it.”

  “Better you go ahead and tell it, then. You’re going to interrupt me all the time anyway,” I said with a smile. She always did. She made a face and actually stuck out her tongue like she used to when we were kids. So long ago.

  “Well, all right,” I conceded. “I’ll do it. But after dinner. I can’t talk and eat at the same time.”

  Stomachs full to bursting, dishes done, leftovers organized and the early almost-winter darkness wrapping itself around the old house, we all retired to the living room for story-time. Ghost stories were always better told after dark in any case. I poked around in the fireplace and built the fire up to a cozy size. With the lights turned down low, the flickering fire made an ideal ghost story background.

  Settling into my comfortable overstuffed chair, I got into storytelling mode. The big chair had plenty of extra room for six-year-old Cherie to snuggle in beside me, while tiny Linda Lynn sat in her favorite miniature rocker that Maryanne always brought along for her. Our two boys rolled around on the floor, as usual.

  “Once upon a time,” Maryanne said.

  “See,” I frowned at her. “You’re already interrupting and I haven’t even started yet.”

  “How can I interrupt if you haven’t started? There’s nothing to interrupt.”

  “Just try and hold it down, please,” I insisted, shifting around with Cherie to get extra-comfy in the chair. “Here goes then: Once upon a time. It was a dark and stormy night.”

  “It really was dark and stormy,” Maryanne interrupted.

  I glared at her. She smiled, then the tongue again.

  “As I said, before I was so rudely interrupted,” I continued forcefully. “It was a dark and stormy night. But before that, the day before, is when the story really started.”

  That morning, Dad and I had snuck up on Missus Gob. I kind of herded her toward Dad and then he grabbed her and held her tight, tucked firmly under his arm, very careful of her pecking beak. Missus Gob was the biggest fattest best-fed turkey we had on the farm, and proved to be the most delicious ever.

  Maryanne had been unhappily watching all of this. “You take your sister into the house now,” Dad said, “and tell your Mom that Missus Gob and I are ready—or, at least, I am.” I took Maryanne’s hand and led her into the house. She didn’t complain despite the concerned look on her little face.

  We weren’t allowed to watch the actual procedure, but I knew it involved an axe because Dad was already headed for the chopping block, plump and delicious Missus Gob complaining indignantly as they went. Maryanne asked questions, but I didn’t answer. The deed was to be done, but out of our view.

  Later in the day, after lunch, Mom called me into the kitchen to help out as I was expected to do for these holiday meals, now that I was eleven and tall enough to see over the counter.

  “We’ve got a lot of potatoes to peel,” she told me. “They’re in that sack over there. Peel them all and cut them into chunks just like you know how to do. Wash them good.”

  I was afraid this was going to happen, and I was ready. “Look at this recipe, Mom. Let’s do this one.” I had painstakingly copied it out on nice paper for her.

  In anticipation of my dreaded chore, I had scoured the cookbooks looking for just the right recipe. One where the potato peels stayed on the potatoes. I didn’t mind cutting them into chunks, that was kind of fun, but I hated that peeling.

  She took the recipe, a surprised smile on her face.

  TOMMY’S CONFETTI POTATOES

  2 ½ lbs. Red Potatoes – unpeeled and cut into chunks

  ¼ cup (or more) Sweet Pepper– chopped

  ¼ cup (or more) Carrot – chopped

  ¼ cup (or more) Celery – chopped

  ¼ cup (or more) Onion – chopped

  ¼ cup (or to taste) Hot Pepper – finely diced (optional)

  2 cloves Garlic – minced

  ½ cup Milk

  ½ cup Sour Cream

  2 Tablespoons Butter

  1 Tablespoon (or more) Fresh Parsley – chopped (or Cilantro)

  1 teaspoon (or to taste) Salt

  ¾ teaspoon (or to taste) Pepper

  Combine in a pot: the potatoes, sweet pepper, carrot, celery, onion, hot pepper and garlic. Cover with cold water and bring to a boil. Simmer until tender, then drain and return to the pot for mashing.

  Mash until as smooth as possible. There will, of course, be small lumps of vegetables. Stir in the milk, sour cream, butter, parsley, salt and pepper. Serve hot.

  Mom looked the recipe over, her lips moving slightly as she read. “Well, this sounds pretty good. Let’s go ahead and make them this way, but this recipe is way too small—we’ll have to at least triple it. Where did you find it?”

  I shrugged, not wanting to admit my deviousness. She was going to make it! This was great! No more potato peeling! The peels would stay right on the potatoes where they belonged! A new recipe and a new tradition!

  “The celery and carrots and peppers are in the refrigerator and the onions are in the bin. Be sure to cut everything up real fine, especially the hot peppers.”

  Oh-oh! I hadn’t thought of that! That’s a lot of cutting—it’s going to be worse than potato peeling! So much for all my cleverness. Darn. I sighed and got to work on it. I wished Maryanne would hurry up and get big enough to do this stuff, but it would be five years until she was my age and that’s like forever. I sighed again. Being the oldest sucks.

  I felt better about it the next day, though, when mealtime arrived. We all sat down around the big table and were barely able to fit everyone in. Missus Gob was there, the guest of honor in the middle of the table. Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty had driven over from Forbestown, arriving early to help out. Mom’s sister Elsa and her new boyfriend were right on time. Dad’s brother Art with his wife Liz arrived a little late but in good time for Missus Gob. As we sat down, I gazed admiringly at the big bowl full of
my potatoes. I guess it was worth the work.

  “You forgot Asa,” Maryanne interjected. “Great-Uncle Asa was there too. I remember him.”

  “You’re right, he was,” I replied. “And I thank you for that interruption. I’m amazed you waited so long.” She wrinkled her nose; then the tongue appeared again.

  The meal was delicious. Missus Gob with gravy and cranberry sauce beat all expectations, the dressing and green beans and salad and all the little extras were perfect, especially the confetti mashed potatoes. Mom was a great cook.

  “She really was!” Maryanne exclaimed. “Those chocolate chip cookies of hers were something else! And that chocolate icebox cake! I have her recipes, but somehow they don’t come out quite the same.”

  I frowned and glowered.

  “Oops, sorry,” she said, hand to her mouth. No tongue this time.

  We had just cleaned our plates for the last time and were getting ready for the desserts. Aunt Betty had brought three of her famous pies, two apples and, of course, a pumpkin. Aunt Elsa had attempted a sort of apple crisp, which, surprisingly, had turned out pretty good—I wound up having two servings. With ice cream. Auntie Liz had made her German chocolate cake, one of my favorites. My many favorites.

  But then, while we were waiting for our desserts to be dished up on plates and covered with ice cream, Uncle Art suddenly exclaimed, “What was that?” We looked at him.