I know. I know what you probably thought when you saw the title of this post, “Jeepers! Halloween is barely behind us! Why do we need a Thanksgiving stuffing recipe? Why are people like her always trying to rush the season?” I get it. I sympathize. I often feel the same way when I see Christmas decorations around Labor Day. Frankly, I think there should be a national registry of some kind to alert us to ANY store that puts out so much as a Christmas Tree-shaped piece of candy prior to Black Friday. Let the boycotts begin!
Don’t even get me started on the neighbor who, while wearing a tank top and shorts, puts his Christmas lights on his house in August! This may be how they do it in South America, but it’s not how we do it here! Here, in the Northeastern United States, possibly as a result of our Puritan ideals — ideals on which this country was founded — we believe in suffering. This guy surely needs to get with the program or, you know, read a history book!
I get it. It’s cold here in our neck of the woods come December. It’s not sub-zero, though. Do you think that our Puritan ancestors grabbed their flip-flops round about August 15th and decided, because it was easier, to ready their homes for Christmas in the summer? Heavens, no! These people eschewed ease. They wore ruffled shirts before the advent of spray starch and electric irons.
Put on a coat and hat after Thanksgiving and put up the damn lights. Donning foul weather gear while decorating your house for Christmas should be a required component of the game, shouldn’t it? Watching him engage in this activity in August does not make me think, “Oh, what a smart idea Mr. Guinea-tee and sandals had across the street! He’s a real genius, that guy, getting a jump on Christmas and all!” It does not. It makes me want to participate in my own little project, which would include, but might not be limited to, creeping over there in the dead of night and cutting the wires. At the very least I’d like to arm some neighborhood hooligans with a few dozen eggs. If any house in the neighborhood deserves a good, old-fashioned egging, it’s his! How’s that for a little Puritan ingenuity?
It’s never too early to start thinking about Thanksgiving, though — that most Puritanical of American holidays. Because it’s all about the food. And giving thanks. It’s my favorite holiday. No gifts. No cards. (Really, NO cards, people. There’s nothing I like LESS than a Thanksgiving CARD! Because, really, they’re stupid. If you insist on buying me one, don’t think I’ll be reciprocating. Bring some dessert or a nice package of dinner rolls. But, please, NO cards! ) I’ve come to believe that every time a Thanksgiving card is purchased a Puritan rolls over in his or her grave. Just think about THAT while you’re at The Hallmark Store!
What prompted me to publish the recipe that follows, along with what I hope was a handy primer on “The Remnants of Puritanism in 21st Century America”, was when Mindy Klapper Trotta over at Betterafter50.com sounded the alarm for holiday recipes for the webzine’s upcoming issues. Just like weird neighbor guy who begins to think about his winter holiday decorations while the rest of us are enjoying watermelon and fireworks on The Fourth of July, web magazines plan well in advance for their holiday issues — hey, at least it’s not because they don’t want to put on shoes!
It’s just not Thanksgiving without turkey. Unless, of course you’re my brother-in-law, whose motto is, “Let’s drag folks up to Massachusetts — the place where Thanksgiving was invented (!) — and hoodwink them into eating pork roast!” (Even my brother-in-law, anarchist that he is, knew enough to serve stuffing with the foolish pork roast on that most regrettable of Thanksgivings!)
While it would make me happy to think that, to get into the spirit of things, you are sporting earmuffs and and a cozy cableknit sweater while you are reading this, it’s not absolutely required. Although, really, would it kill you to throw on a scarf? Or, at the very least, a flannel shirt?
Thanksgiving Sausage Stuffing
This recipe was passed down to me by my mother, Karen Tierney, who got it from her mother, Eileen Callaghan, who, more than likely, took it off of the package of frozen sausage or found it in the pages of a women’s magazine in the 1940’s. It should be noted that my skepticism regarding the provenance of this recipe is not unfounded — these are the same women who hijacked the Hellmann’s mayonnaise macaroni salad recipe and insist, to this day, that they created it! (Neither of them has ever gone so far as to accuse the good folks at Hellmann’s of stealing it from THEM, but, you know, there’s always tomorrow!)
This recipe makes A HONKING amount of stuffing — enough to stuff a 25-lb. turkey AND extra that can be cooked in a casserole dish on the side. What can I say? There’s never enough stuffing for my family. We’re Irish. We like our carbs!
3 – 16 oz. “tubes” frozen “mild” pork sausage, raw (You can find it in the case with the frozen breakfast sausage; my family uses the “Jamestown” brand, but that may not be available nationwide. I’m sure Jones or Jimmy Dean has an equivalent
3 – large yellow onions, finely chopped (If you want to get fancy, you can probably substitute shallots or Vidalia onions, but I like it made with your basic, no-frills yellow onion
6 – sticks of butter (If you’re health conscious, I suppose you could substitute margarine for the butter, but who are you kidding? If you’re making this stuffing, you’re not worried about your fat intake. So, really, just use the butter. It tastes better
6 – loaves “stuffing” bread or white sandwich bread, crumbled. (“Stuffing” bread is just unsliced white bread. I don’t recommend making this with the stuffing that’s sold in a bag — that product is more like croutons than it is bread and they’re seasoned, which I don’t like. Also, they don’t soften and, therefore, they don’t absorb the liquids as well as the bread does. But, who am I to tell you what to do? I’m not eating it. Do what you like. I can’t stop you!)
1-1/2 c. boiling water (More may be required, boil 2-1/2 cups to be on the safe side.)
3 – tablespoons (or more) Bell’s Turkey Seasoning (I have NEVER used anything but Bell’s when making turkey or stuffing.)
A note on the casserole dish — the one that you will cook the “extra” stuffing in — the stuffing for the next day’s sandwiches, for example — what would be the point of a leftover Thanksgiving turkey sandwich without stuffing or a couple of decent slices of rye bread? — this dish should be shallow, like a 9×13 baking dish. DO NOT butter it! The sausage has enough fat to keep it from sticking. DO cover it with foil and place it on the top rack of the oven — it WILL burn on the bottom rack. I usually stick it in when the turkey has about an hour left to cook. Temp it with a thermometer or taste it to make sure the sausage is thoroughly cooked. (160 degrees Fahrenheit is the proper temperature for safely cooked pork sausage, and sausage just tastes better when it’s cooked.)
In a large pot — like a lobster pot if you have one or, if you’re Italian, the Sunday gravy pot will be perfect! — if you do not have a lobster pot or a Sunday gravy pot, use the largest pot that you DO have and hope for the best, or make it in stages. It doesn’t take long to make — melt the butter over medium heat. Turn down the flame and add the onions (you want the onions to soften without burning the butter). Add half of the Bell’s seasoning. Stir frequently.
While the onions are cooking, boil the water.
Once the onions are soft, begin adding the crumbled bread (you can cut it into cubes if you prefer). I don’t pre-crumble the bread. I find it’s just as easy to “crumble (or cut) as you go” (who needs to dirty another bowl on Thanksgiving morning, for heaven’s sakes!). You can add some hot water and begin to stir the butter/onion/seasoning through the bread to make room for more bread! Be conservative with the water. You want to really spread the butter mixture throughout the dish. When all the bread has been crumbled and the butter mixture well incorporated, if the final product seems dry, add more water. When the consistency is wet, but not mushy, add the remaining Bell’s seasoning and give it one more thorough stir. That’s it!
You can make this a day in advance, just be sure NOT to stuff the bird until you are ready to put it in the oven! I would recommend taking the “extra” that needs to be cooked separately out of the refrigerator at least one hour prior to putting it in the oven. You will want it to be room temperature before putting it in the oven for two very good reasons (learn from my mistakes, people!):
Very good reason #1: A cold, glass baking dish CAN explode either in the oven — a glass-encrusted turkey will ruin everyone’s day! — or upon removal from the oven, which, of course, is preferable to the in-oven explosion, but still not ideal. I mean, you’ll have a great story, what you won’t have is any extra stuffing!
Very good reason #2: Even if you plan to avoid the potential for disaster by using a metal pan, (what? you think I didn’t try that?) the cold pork will not cook through without the bread portion burning and drying out. Again, no extra stuffing.
You’ve been warned!
Regardless of the murky and possibly dubious origins of this recipe, it is, hands down, THE BEST STUFFING you will ever make! If you agree, let me know. If you disagree, let me know, I’ll put you in touch with my mother. Her mother would be a tad difficult to contact, as she passed away many years ago. I’ll bet she still misses eating this stuffing. She LOVED this stuffing!
NOTE: Like Mark Knopfler who “can’t do a love song like the way it’s meant to be” (Romeo and Juliet, 1980), neither can I write a recipe like a normal person. I don’t know, I kind of think it’s more fun this way, don’t you?
Go Ahead, Get Your Own Blog — I Dare Ya!
Thanksgiving is a day when we take the opportunity to give thanks for all the blessings in our lives. I used the day in this way. I also used it to catch up with what my extended family members are getting up to and to relearn the names of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. My husband, on the other hand, chose to use his day of thanks in a somewhat different manner. Yesterday, my husband, the much put-upon, Fang, served up — in much the same way that he doled out the pie — several small slices of resentment, topped with a few savory dollops of bitterness.
We got on the topic of social media. I was commenting about how much I enjoyed keeping up with some of the family members on Facebook — watching the kids grow, discovering who had changed jobs, living vicariously through my cousin’s fabulous vacations, you know, that sort of thing. Mostly I chit-chatted idly with folks I don’t see that often anymore. I think I said something like how grateful I was for Facebook and other social media sites that allow me to feel a part of everyone’s life.
My Uncle had a decidedly different take on the Facebook phenomena. He was lamenting how, as a result of his wife’s Facebook page, nothing that he ever does is private — right down to where he has dinner on a Friday night, how much he won (or lost) in the weekly football pool, and why one might want to avoid him following his and the dog’s latest tangle with a backyard skunk. I got the sense that he wasn’t as big fan of the Facebook as I am.
During the course of the conversation my husband found an opportunity to do a bit of his own kvetching. He laughed and rolled his eyes as my Uncle regaled us with tales of his wife’s Facebook “antics” (his word!). My husband saw fit at this juncture to “warn” my Uncle about saying “too much” around his niece. (That would be me.) Fang explained to my Uncle that while the odd Facebook status update might prove slightly embarrassing, it couldn’t hold a candle to the blog post in terms of length, breadth, or depth.
Fang went on to explain how there are now — thanks to my blog —- any number of strangers out there (“they could be anybody!”) who know how many pairs of shoes he owns, his affinity for reality television, and how often he uses the word “stupid”. Fang doesn’t normally say much, but he was on a roll AND he wanted sympathy — a deadly combination!
He and my Uncle seemed on the verge of hatching a plan of their very own — a plan that included telling the world about the wives’ poor eating habits, redecorating failures, and all of the other wacky things the two of us are wont to engage in. I suppose they were doing this in an effort to staunch the creative outlets we have discovered, hers through Facebook, mine through blogging. It seems that they thought they could shame us into changing our ways.
We just laughed as we boldly challenged them to get their own Facebook pages and/or their own blogs. We’re not afraid. We know they won’t do either.
It helps that my Uncle doesn’t even know how to USE Facebook and that my husband wouldn’t know the first thing about blogging. If they put their heads together I’m sure there could be trouble, but they won’t. While an all-out internet war might prove interesting, my Aunt and I are fairly confident that it will never come to pass. Frankly, they’re entirely too busy rasslin’ skunks and “Squatchin'” vicariously to get up to any such thing.
Enough
Every Thanksgiving, like many families, we say grace and then take turns giving voice to those things for which we are grateful.
My response is as honest as it is simple — and it’s always the same — I am grateful because I have enough.
It’s not fancy, but it’s the truth. There have been times when I didn’t have enough of those things that people can see — like money or other resources. And I’m grateful that I seem, these days, to have more of those things than I had in the past, but what I’m most thankful for is that I recognized that what was sorely lacking in my life was not anything that anyone else could see, nothing that could be bought. What I was sorely lacking was faith. Not religious faith, but faith in myself.
Some people might look at my life now and think that I’m kidding myself. They might think that I still don’t have enough of the creature comforts, that in resolving to be happy with what I have I’ve lowered my expectations. The nicest thing about discovering the faith that I have in myself is that I no longer pay heed or give credence to what others may think.
For those who say I’m kidding myself, that I have lowered my standards, I would argue that I’m not, that I haven’t. Indeed, I would argue that I’ve raised them.
I may not have some of the trappings of success that others do, but I don’t value them, either. My husband probably wishes that I did. Then, maybe we’d have our own house or go on exotic vacations. But, I don’t.
There are some areas of my life that might benefit from a change. Consideration as to whether these changes will make for a better life or just a different life must be taken into account and weighed carefully before changes are made.
I’m thankful that I know that trading in my server apron for a corporate I.D. card won’t necessarily make me happier. It may make other people happier, but that’s not any reason to do it. You can’t put a price tag on that kind of knowledge.
I know that I don’t want to measure my self-worth in “stuff”. There are other ways to measure success. I think I’ve done pretty well in the areas that truly matter.
What I’ve discovered is that I’ve made some fruitful investments and that they have names and faces — my husband, my daughter, my family, my friends, and my co-workers. Less tangible and not as easy to assess as economic success perhaps, but the pleasure I take from these relationships is far more satisfying than owning a dishwasher could ever be.
Truthfully, I have far more than I need — possibly far more than I deserve. I have enough faith in myself to know this and that satisfies me greatly. That, my friends, is something to be grateful for.
The “Painting Fairy” Saves the Day!
If I said to my husband, dear, old Fang, “Hey, I have an idea! Let’s paint our room and buy new furniture, including a mattress set, the week before Thanksgiving!”, he would have, and rightly so, looked at me like I’d gone off my rocker, like I’d plum lost my mind. Yet, he and our darling daughter, the I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now-but-I’ll-be-at-Starbuck’s-when-it-comes-time-for-all-the-heavy-lifting, Fangette, managed to put their heads together and, in so doing, hatched a very similar plan regarding her bedroom just the other day.
The problem, which has now become MY problem, is that they both have the attention spans of your average gnat. They also have no idea what-all goes into painting a room, let alone dragging out old furniture and replacing it with new furniture. Sure, they’ve watched me do it successfully time and time again, but they’ve never actually done it themselves. They underestimated, just a teensy bit, the time, energy, and cost associated with a project of this magnitude.
Fang, wearing, one would have to assume, his best pair of rose-colored glasses, struck what he thought was a reasonable deal with the daughter (the wife who could not believe her ears when she heard the plan, chose to remain silent). He told Fangette that if she removed the junk from her room, that he would use his last couple of vacation days to paint her room. That was Monday.
Do I even need to tell you that it’s now Wednesday and the only paint on the walls are the couple of swipes from the different colored sample pots that I acquired from the home improvement store? Will it come as a shock if I tell you that Fangette isn’t happy with either color?
In Fang’s defense, I should mention that he fell into the trap set by his offspring. He thought, as fathers often do, that he could trust his daughter to hold up her end of the bargain. I, of course, knew better. I’ve learned though, that when faced with these situations, it really is best to hold my tongue. This way, later on, when things inevitably go south, I can shake my head, suck my teeth, and seem somewhat sympathetic while muttering my “I told you so’s”.
Mothers really do know best. It’s a shame my family rarely consults me. Then again, why should they? I was not party to the deal brokering or the wild and unrealistic promises made by my partner — a man whose last foray into the wonderful world of painting lasted all of ten minutes before he began complaining about “cramping”. The expectation will be that I will spend the next few days picking up the pieces of their abandoned project. It will undoubtedly fall upon me to remove the detritus that was excavated from my daughter’s bedroom. The crap that was relocated NOT out to the garbage bin — that would’ve required putting on shoes, I guess, and, really, who can be bothered with that? — but, instead, to the very narrow, freshly painted hallway that is, itself, only in the secondary stage of redecoration — it’s painted, there are shelves, but a few things remain to be done before it can be called “finished”.
Not to worry, though, I’ll just dig out my “Painting Fairy” wings and save the day! Because, ya know, that’s how things shape up here at the hovel. I’ll be the one with paint in her hair and spackle underneath her fingernails. I’ll be the one to take her chances with the return of the plantar fasciitis that has finally subsided — but, really, climbing up and down a ladder is, surely, playing with fire where this malady is concerned.
I almost don’t even want to get started on the furniture. But, I will. Because I think that you need to know — so that you can form a full picture of what I’m up against here — that her new bed will not be the same size as her old bed. And, so, of course, we must procure a new mattress and box spring set in order to make this whole thing work.
On my list of things I’d rather not do — like, ever — mattress shopping with an adolescent is topped only by going out on safari, skydiving, and having needles stuck into my eyeballs. Frankly, the eyeball thing might be less torturous than the mattress thing.
While my kid, like teenagers the world over, loves to shop, shopping for a mattress does not have the same cachet, let’s say, as hopping from one store to another in search of such wardrobe staples as the perfect party dress or the ever elusive owl earrings. Not the same cachet AT ALL!
Minor criminals should not be locked in jail or forced to hammer out license plates, if the government is looking for a way to truly punish people for things like trespassing, destruction of personal property, or driving without insurance, I’d like to suggest that they require these folks to mattress shop with my kid or others like her — the disinterested, the surly, the petulant. I’ll bet after serving out this type of sentence they’ll think long and hard about taking a sledgehammer to their ex-wife’s car. Long and hard. I guarantee there won’t be a next time. Guarantee it.
So, yeah. My husband goes back to work tomorrow. There’s still crap piled in my hallway. I’ll have to spelunk under my daughter’s bed when I get home from work today — I hope I can put my hands on my cave exploration kit, I have a feeling I’m going to need it for that job. The walls need cleaning and taping. A mattress set still needs to be decided upon, purchased, and delivered. Arguments need to be had regarding paint colors — she seems to be going for “medieval dungeon”, I’d like something a little less depressing, but, who am I kidding?, I’m so beaten down at this point that I’d be happy to paint the stupid room black.
Somehow, in the midst of all of this lunacy, I’ll be expected to work in cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I could just make reservations or go elsewhere — invitations have been offered — but what fun would there be in that? I’m thinking that if I really want to teach them a lesson, if I truly want to give them a dose of their own medicine, I could just spring it on them Wednesday evening that they’ll be cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, yeah. That might prove interesting.
I’ll keep my “Turkey Cooking” wings handy, though. You know, just in case they need me to swoop in and save Thanksgiving, too.
Intervention: Senior Citizen Edition
My mother may need an intervention. A reality TV intervention. After reviewing the events of yesterday and discussing several of my mother’s allusions to prominent reality television personalities, Fangette and I have decided that Grandma may, in fact, have a serious addiction to shows like “Ice Loves Coco”, “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”, and, most frighteningly, something called “Doomsday Preppers”.
I think that my mother’s problem began innocently enough. First it was “Dancing With the Stars”, “American Idol”, “So, You Think You Can Dance?”, and other “competition” programming. Early in their runs she would call me with periodic updates about the competitors. I should have become suspicious when she told me that she was only watching “DWT” because she “had heard” that Donny Osmond was doing a bang-up job. And that “Sanjaya”? Who could have expected he would still be around so late in the contest? She once called me crying after an episode of “So, You Think You Can Dance?” to describe that she had just witnessed the “most beautiful” modern dance; choreographed, I was told, to symbolize someone’s mother’s battle with breast cancer. It’s as if she were channeling Jerome Robbins or Martha Graham. She became enamored of and really seemed to enjoy David Hasselhoff’s shenanigans on “The X-Factor”. I probably should have become concerned when she began referring to him as “The Hoff”. Who knew the modern-day equivalent of the 1970’s variety shows (she loved her some “Sonny and Cher” back in the day) were something of a gateway drug for dear old Mom?
All the warning signs that my mother was crossing the line, hittin’ the hard stuff— they were there. The fact that she could not only name, but identify, all eight of John and Kate’s progeny should have sent up a red flag. I admit to being a little worried when she began speaking of “The Girls Next Door” and I realized that she was not referring to actual neighbors, but to the couple of young blondes that were shacking up with Hugh Hefner. Still, I reasoned, where was the harm in a little escapism? How many tea cozies can one retired arthritic woman be expected to knit? How many bingo games could she afford to attend a week? Everyone’s entitled to a little down time, right?
I was unwilling to admit that, maybe, just maybe, my mother had a problem. Until yesterday. Yesterday, prior to sitting down to our Thanksgiving dinner, instead of asking my daughter about school, her job at the movie theater, or her friends, my mother began discussing the type of dogs Ice-T and Coco own. (“Ugly little things”, but Ice loves ’em!)She also wondered aloud if we didn’t all think that Ice might just be too old to be considering parenthood. (“But Coco’s young and she really wants a baby, so, I don’t know, I guess it could happen.”) My mother endorsed Coco’s bid for motherhood. We learned that “she [Coco] may not be the sharpest tack in the box, but she’s a real sweetheart.” My mother also pointed out that they live pretty close to here. For a minute I thought she might be suggesting we pack up the turkey and take a road trip. When I asked her if, in fact, that was where she was going with this information, her response was not (as I think it should have been) “Oh, my God. No! That would be crazy!”); it was, and I quote, “Don’t be silly. Even if we could find the house, I don’t think they’re home. They said something last week about going to California for the holidays.”
The subject of motherhood brought us to a discussion of the Kardashians. My mother has some pretty strong opinions on Kris Jenner’s mothering skills (“not good”). Mom is supportive of Kourtney, though. “Kris’ revelation that she had cheated on their father, well, that sent poor Kourtney into therapy, ya know. It’s no wonder she puts up with that Scott. She doesn’t want to put her children through what she went through as a child. You have to hand it to her. She’s really sticking it out!” As I have very little frame of reference in the world of the Kardashian/Jenners, I found it best to keep my mouth shut. I figured if no one responded, this conversation would just come to its natural end. That’s when my father piped in with: “Your mother is really looking forward to the day that Khloe and Lamar have a baby!” I realized, at that very moment, that my father was, what we like to call in recovery, an “enabler”.
After they left, Fangette and I decided that we may have to stage some sort of intervention. Or, at least cut the cable wire. I only hope that she has not, as she seemed to be threatening (over pumpkin pie, I might add), taken a page out of the “Doomsday Preppers” book and “stocked up on bullets and guns”!
photo credit: zazzle.com
A Thanksgiving Deconstruction
Thanksgiving at The Fanganini’s went pretty much as expected. The whining, kvetching, and resentful feelings were kept, pretty much, under wraps. (It was difficult for me to keep quiet, but I reminded myself that I’m a grown-up and this bullshit only happens once a year!)
The turkey got cooked, the potatoes got mashed (In my early Christmas present— A Kitchen-Aid! Thanks, Mom!), the yams got baked, the green bean casserole was thrown together, and the cranberry sauce was, somewhat messily, liberated from it’s tin can (As, I’m sad to report, was the gravy—- I tried, Martha, I really did, but in the end I just could not serve that lumpy, greasy, tasteless mess that the homemade gravy turned out to be!)
Fangette not only seemed sincerely appreciative of her mother’s efforts in the kitchen today, she even helped in making the hovel ready for company. She and I, in a show of mother-daughter solidarity, did some Honest to God purging. (Mostly involving Fang’s stuff— how many Mets sweatshirts does one man need?) As we sunk our teeth into the chocolate chunk macadamia cookies we baked as reward for our Thanksgiving Eve efforts, we engaged in a little man-bashing, a bit of trash talking. Poor Fang. He didn’t really stand a chance. He was a good sport. He innately understood the importance of this bonding experience. He took one for the team. My team. Who says there’s no such thing as a Thanksgiving miracle?
My parents came and went in their usual whirlwind and flurry of activity. Anyone wondering if they ought to address their child’s borderline ADHD need look no further than my father. Even at 67 he cannot sit still. The minute he gets somewhere he’s itching to leave. I thought I was going to have to administer a muscle relaxant to hang up his coat— that’s how firm a grip he had on his outerwear. He asked me no less than five times in thirty minutes if his coat was in the hall closet or my bedroom closet. (Can you say OCD?) For the record, he had watched me like a hawk as I hung it up— in the hall closet! He watched me as if there were some gypsies on the driveway. Gypsies with whom I had entered into some sort of back alley black market L.L. Bean coat stealing operation.
Before any of you sit there shaking your heads at the poor, old, possibly senile, gentleman who just wants to keep track of his possessions, you should know that he has been this way for as long as I’ve known him. For many years this behavior drove me round the bend. But, I’ve matured. And, more importantly, I now have a willing cohort in my efforts to point out his ridiculous behavior. My daughter and I had more than a few laughs today as we taunted him about the nonexistent gypsies roaming the roads of Bergen County, New Jersey scavenging for the Men’s XL L.L. Bean pea coat in black that, as everyone knows, is the missing piece in their collection. Once they get it, they’ll be that much closer to taking over the world. From their caravans. We promised him that the cat was protecting it (the coat, not the gypsy caravan). Everyone knows that cats and gypsies are sworn enemies. He seemed, in some strange way, satisfied by this.
Where, you may be asking yourself, was Grandma while all this possible coat-napping was afoot? Having a back spasm. No doubt a result of dragging the damn Kitchen-Aid up the stairs! (Hey, she’s the one who was desperate to get it out of her house— it was supposed to be a Christmas present, for crying out loud!)
In what defies description (and I’m looking at it right now— trying to come up with an appropriate description), my 46-year-old sister showed up today and passed out Christmas cards. I know. You are probably saying to yourself, “What’s gotten into JavaJ? Too much turkey? Passing out Christmas cards should not be a difficult to describe activity!” And I would agree. In fact, I wouldn’t even be mentioning something so mundane as the annual passing out of Christmas cards if they had not been photo cards. No, they are not budoir shots. If only. They are pet shots. She has two 2-year-old cats. Okay. She likes her cats. If they were just pictures of the cats (even better if she could have gotten them to sport Santa hats, reindeer antlers, or some other festive headwear) that would have been fine (and just borderline sad and pathetic), but, no, the cards feature a picture of her and the cats in a pose best described as romping. You heard me. Romping! 
I asked her who had taken the picture. (Come on, you would have asked her, too. How could you not?) I knew what the answer was going to be before I asked, because she doesn’t have anyone else in her life, except for us (and I know I would have heard about it if Fangette had been involved in this picture-taking extravaganza). Sure enough, I was right. She had taken the picture. Again, confirming my suspicions that this was no spontaneous shot. No, siree! She had to drag out the camera, put up the tripod, wrangle two fairly young, energetic cats (unlike the 13-year-old arthritic feline who lives in my house and will allow you to wear him as a stole for hours on end so long as you continue to pet him in that place under his chin that he likes oh-so-very-much), frame the shot, set the timer— you get the idea. It was complicated! The fruits of all this labor now enjoys a prominent position on my refrigerator door. “Wishing You a Very Meowy Christmas!” (I swear. That’s what it says, which may, on some level, outshine the picture itself—a picture of a 46-year-old woman frolicking with cats.)
And before you go all, “OMG, JavaJ, you are sooooo mean!” Let me just tell you that if I had created this gem of a holiday card, my sister would probably be looking into turning into a billboard. She, at least, would have it posted all over Facebook in a matter of minutes. So, I don’t really feel like a bad person. (I wasn’t going to post the picture of the card, but Ross over at Drinking Tips for Teens is evil and he MADE me do it!— honestly, I cannot believe he is allowed to coach a basketball team made up of impressionable youth!)
The minute her Aunt left (after she insisted on doing the dishes— she may be loony, but she’s at least a helpful loon!), my daughter and my mother (taking a short break from regaling us with what that crazy couple, Coco and Ice-T, are up to— “She wants a baby!”) immediately encouraged me to find the cat and take some shots for our potential holiday card. Unfortunately, (or fortunately) I was unable (and unwilling) to extricate the cat from beneath my daughter’s bed. I did take a few pictures today. While not nearly as action-packed as my sister and her kitties, I think this one has potential!
All in all, it was a good day. I enjoyed my kid. My husband was helpful. I had more than a few laughs. And my family, well, they certainly make things interesting! Plus, if I do send a picture of shrimp on my Christmas card, folks will have less to say about my wacky sister.
I just may have to take one for the team.
photo credit (cat as turkey): tumbler.com
(Christmas card): I won’t say, on the grounds it may incriminate me!
(shrimp): me
Ambling & Rambling 