It's Thanksgiving. That awkward holiday where we celebrate what we're "thankful" for by stuffing our faces gluttonously and remembering our lovely ancestors who came to the Americas, killed the native people and took over all the land only to cut down all the trees, build pollutant factories, and destroy the beautiful mountain tops with things like mining...
Despite my negative perspective of most American holidays, I like the sentiment of having a day to remind us to be more thankful. Afterall, I do have the best life ever--so, here's a few things that I am grateful for.
Jo--she is my best friend. I adore her and love that she adores me back. I'm so grateful to have her in my life, to go hiking, and snowshoeing and adventuring with her.
Mom--she has supported me my entire life through everything. All my choices. All my rough patches. All my accomplishments. She is the best mom anyone could ask for and I can never show enough appreciation for her.
My computer--I know I spend WAY too much time on the internet and sitting in front of my stupid computer, but it has sure helped me progress as a writer. I doubt I could have written so many words without it.
NaNoWriMo--thank you for existing and helping me push myself further than I ever would have on my own. I've had such a confidence boost this month as I've written a lot of words (including a lot of fluffy, stupid words) and developed a real story with a real plot and real characters in such a short amount of time--I think I really am a writer :)
Now, for a "Dare Devil" Thanksgiving Scene:
“Okay,” Mom says. “Dinner is now officially ready.” She pulls out a turkey from the oven and places it on a hot pad in the middle of the table.
Everyone looks at it as though it’s some kind of deformed piece of art that has some deeper meaning they can’t seem to grasp. It’s Tofurkey, which is to say it’s some kind of tofu that has been morphed into the shape of a cooked, dead turkey, but will have absolutely no taste or texture similar to one.
“Wow, mom. That’s something,” Ben says.
“What the hell is this?” Dad says.“Where’s the turkey?”
“This is the turkey,” Mom says.
We all stare at it. She even went through such lengths as to stuff it with her famous celery, carrot, deliciousness stuffing, and I’ve got to admit it’s pretty close to what regular turkey looks like. I wonder how long it took her to get it into that shape or if it came that way.
Mom does not use the word tofurkey. “Now, dear,” she says to Dad, “let’s make this a good dinner and just see how the turkey turned out.”
Dad grumbles a little, but doesn’t say anything more. He starts dishing up the mashed potatoes from in front of him onto his plate. He holds it out to Ben who is next to him.
Nobody says it, but this is Dad’s fault. Sort of. I don’t actually know how much it was genetically induced and just how much it had to do with his diet, but secretly we all blame Dad for it.
We used to have the family tradition of racing to the closet under the stairs to dig out my old little kid mattress that fits perfectly on the stairs. We used to spend hours and hours on Thanksgiving running up the stairs and sliding down on that mattress. It was a whole family thing. Mom and Dad even played with us.
Two years ago, though, Dad zoomed down, laughing and enjoying himself like he only ever did once a year. When he reached the bottom and crashed into the front door (like we all always did) he didn’t get up right away. He just kept clutching his left arm. Mom gasped and ran down the stairs nearly tripping over herself. We spent the rest of that day in the hospital because Dad had had a heart attack. The doctor said he needed to change his diet. Needed to eat less meat and less salt and more vegetables and leafy greens. Mom has gone to great lengths to make our meals more “healthy” since then. She also banned us from mattress sledding.