As a kid, I loved Thanksgiving.
My mum would make Rice Krispie treats with M&Ms, and she would set up a tray table full of snacks for us kids to eat while we watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade.
And when I say snacks, I don’t mean chips or crackers.
It was mostly fruit, arranged to look all pretty. There were little candies sprinkled in, and those tiny boxes of raisins.
I don’t usually like raisins—especially the black ones—but put them in a tiny box and I’m all in. What is it with kids and tiny packaging?
My mum would get up early—somewhere between 5 and 6 a.m.—to put the 400-pound turkey in the oven.
Then it was time for our snack display. Mum would start putting the fruit out, and suddenly eight hands (there are four of us “kids”) would come from every direction, grabbing at everything. She would lovingly smack our hands… well, it would start out lovingly, and when it became annoying, it was, um… less than lovingly.
She’d tell us to go sit and put the parade on. And of course, we watched the real Thanksgiving Day parade—the Macy’s Day Parade.
My sister Kris and I would help cook, so we’d run back and forth between the kitchen and the television. We would listen for the “good” things—a float representing our favorite cartoon, or a beloved balloon like Snoopy, Garfield, or Superman. Sometimes our brothers would remember to call us back to see the Pink Panther or Woody Woodpecker balloons.
As the turkey cooked, Olive Oyl, Betty Boop, and Yogi Bear floated by. Marching bands would play and dance, and celebrities would wave from the floats.
It was fun and exciting. And the whole time, we’d be grabbing snacks from the display my mum had arranged.
And then, the parade would end with the appearance of Santa.
Dinner would be served… and eight and a half minutes later, dinner would be over. Okay, okay—maybe not exactly eight and a half minutes, but after all that cooking, it certainly seemed like dinner was over that quickly.
One of the things I loved about holidays was that we didn’t have to eat anything we didn’t want to. My younger brother ate only pickles and rolls one year… I might be misremembering the exact foods, but you get the point.
Normally, we had to have a little bit of everything at dinnertime, but for holidays the rule was suspended! I was a kid who didn’t like a lot of foods, so not having to eat anything I disliked felt magical.
After dinner, there were dishes—ugh, so many dishes. So. Many.
Then came the best part of the day: we went visiting. First to my aunt and uncle’s, and then to my paternal grandparents’ house.
By the time we arrived at my grandparents’ house, it would be late. Before we even thought about opening the car door, my mum would tell us that it was past our bedtime and that we were on her time. She’d say, “Just remember—you’re on My Time.” We knew never to misbehave when we were on her time! It was definitely one of those phrases that was said with capital letters and in bold.
And at my grandparents’ house, we would have supper. And the best supper of all—pie!
My dad is one of seven boys, so you can imagine how long the kitchen table was. I swear it was twelve feet long. And every inch of it was covered with cookies, quick breads, and pies. Banana, pumpkin, raisin, and cranberry quick breads. Apple, blueberry, mincemeat, pumpkin, chocolate cream pies…
And when one pie dish was empty, another full one would appear.
So many choices. So much deliciousness. I don’t know how my grandmother kept up with the demand, but somehow she managed.
I have so many fond memories of holidays at my grandparents’. They were a large, loud, boisterous group. People were constantly arriving, grabbing something to eat, talking, laughing, and then heading home.
It was the kind of place where family and friends could always count on a hot meal, good conversation, and laughter.
We played with the other cousins while conversations, playful arguments, and laughter flowed from the kitchen.
When we were hungry, we’d head back to the kitchen for a cookie or a piece of pie.
If you were lucky, your slice of pie would be sitting nicely, crust side down on a plate. If you were not so lucky, your pie would “accidentally” fall and be served crust side up.
Loud yells would ring out as all the adults reacted with outrage and commiserated that your pie had been flipped. Then laughter would fill the room.
And no matter where you were, you knew a piece of pie had fallen victim to one of my uncles and their questionable “serving skills.”
Some of the uncles would flip the pie with obvious intention, while others would pretend to put it down nicely, then suddenly let it fall, sending it flipping at the very last moment.
It didn’t matter whether you were 5 or 95—everyone got their pie flipped at one time or another.
I’m sure there were family members who didn’t love the pie-flipping, but it was all in good fun. It was weirdly charming.
And I hope it’s a tradition my kids will continue.
And then, too soon, my mum would be telling us to get our jammies on—and that was the signal that it was getting late.
Slowly, people would start to leave and head home. We would lie sleepily on the couch while the conversations wound down and leftovers were put away. As the sounds of talking and laughter faded, they were replaced by the quiet rhythm of cleaning up, relatives saying their goodbyes, and wishing each other Happy Thanksgiving.
And then Thanksgiving was over, and we’d head home—and straight to bed.
Holidays were always loud, fun, and magical. I have memories of those days that I will never forget—memories that still make me smile. Memories I would relive in a heartbeat, given the chance.
Thanksgiving now looks different. We still go visiting on Thanksgiving evening, but the tables are smaller and the pies fewer. The family is smaller. Quieter. Some of the faces at the table are the same—just a bit older. Others are new, and don’t share these fond memories of past Thanksgivings. People have come and gone. But the table is still filled with conversation, mock arguing, and laughter.
And slices of pie still “accidentally” flip onto the plate. You still hear the laughter and the yells of outrage and commiseration. Yes, the voices are fewer, but the love and laughter are still there.
And sometimes I can still hear the voices of those we’ve lost. They’re still commiserating and laughing over our manhandled slices of pie.
From my home to yours, happiest of Thanksgivings. May your turkey be plentiful, your desserts sweet, and your bellies full.
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Brain Fog & Brilliance 
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