"If you don't come home for Thanksgiving when you're at college, I will murder you."
She stared into the depths of my soul, finger planted firmly against my sternum. I eyed the carving knife on the counter and swallowed hard. The smell of sweet potato pie hung in the air, marshmallows bubbling in a glass serving tray on the oven.
I was seven years old.
Thanksgiving in my house is the Superbowl of holidays. My mother lives in the kitchen from the Monday before until the following Sunday. She makes lists of recipes and grocery items four weeks in advance, watching the Food Channel and tearing pages out of "Martha Stewart Living."
"Mom, she's a criminal."
"I don't care, she can cook."
In October she often sits down to dinner prepared with a list of former Thanksgiving dishes.
"So do you think I should make the Czechoslovakian lamb and corn goulash again this year?"
Turkey and stuffing are great, but an Aronstein Thanksgiving is never complete without a stew, chowder or soup that derives its name from a movie star, Soviet Bloc nation or fancy hotel. On those October nights, I used to curse Squanto and the Mayflower with all my strength. There simply is no right answer to the question, "You mean you didn't like it?"
I thought I had escaped this responsibility this year, snickering to myself at the thought of my father and sister sitting alone at the table with the General. That was, until I called home a few days before Halloween.
"Hey mom, it's me! Your son! The one at college!"
"A-J. Great. I need to know something. Did you like the Hungarian goat-herder stew last year?"
I started to sweat. It was just like sitting at the dinner table, Mom sitting at the end of the table with a list written on a folded sheet of scrap paper and a red pen.
For mom, silence in response to her questions always signifies disapproval. It couldn't possibly be that Thanksgiving was 304 days ago and I don't recall what I had for lunch yesterday.
"You didn't like it then?"
The pitch of her voice rose.
I hated it.
"I loved it!"
"Great. So I'll make it again this year. Do you think I should make more of it than last year?"
Dear, sweet Jesus, no.
"Of course!"
Then there are the dueling turkeys. Every year my parents compete with each other for the favor of our seven million guests. Mom uses the oven; Dad sticks to the grill. So far my father has come out on top four years in a row, though my mother assures me that this year she will take the crown. The jury is still out on whether my father fixed the competition last year by basting his bird in beer. Mom didn't really have a chance.
Don't get me wrong. My mother can really cook. I can't imagine better executed mashed potatoes or corn pudding with a better consistency. Her broccoli pastry disappears in five seconds. My Nana and grandmother both eye the last cheesy, flaky, delicious piece. They squint at each other through their bifocals, arms crossed.
"Helen, you take it. You look pale. Do you have pneumonia again?"
"I wouldn't dream of it, Sara. After all you probably need the calcium to sustain your disintegrating skeletal system."
To resolve the issue, I pick up the last piece and lick my thumb.
"Aww. You should have it, A-J. At least, that's what I was trying to tell your grandmother."
"Your weak-hearted Nana is right, A-J. Growing boys need their vegetables."
I insist that at 18 years old, I will probably remain 5-foot-8 for the rest of my life.
"No, don't you worry A-J. You won't be short forever. You've got strong Zaleski blood in you."
My cousins and uncles on my mother's side all top six feet.
"He's not short, Helen. Look at how much bigger than me he is!"
My grandmother is 4-foot-10. My grandfather and two uncles on my father's side top out at 5-foot-6.
And they're all bald. The holidays are so depressing.
Honestly, I can't wait to go home. I'll sit next to my grandfather and listen to him talk about how terrible the ladies' millinery business is. I'll smoke a cigar with my dad. I'll listen to my uncle talk about the virtues of Creationism and promising futures in Amway. I'll stuff myself and give turkey to my dog. And I'll glance at my sister on the opposite side of the table and we'll both know exactly what the other is thinking.
Our family is insane.
Mostly, I'll be back in New York, where it will be cold and gray and exactly the way Thanksgiving is supposed to be.
Hope "y'all" have a good break.
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