Gobble gobble

Yesterday, I called my mom. She had an agenda item: Thanksgiving. My mom's sister Midge became widowed this year and has moved into an assisted living place. Which will not be serving Thanksgiving dinner. So could I come down like the last few years and bring all the food and cook dinner for mom and Karen and Midge. Of course, I said. Then she went on to point out that the last two years, the stuffing I made had not been good, either the homemade or the Stovetop. And that last year, I cooked the ham too long and it was all dried out.

Now ponder this: I came down the night before with all the food-- deviled eggs and pickles and sweet potato casserole and poppin' fresh croissants and ham and coleslaw and Stovetop stuffing AND prepared all this stuff in a kitchen where the ambient temp is around 86 degrees AND cleaned it all up AND did the dishes and put them away. Without drinking. And then drove home.

But this apparently still entitles her to complain about a meal, the likes of which she couldn't have prepared and had it all come out at the same time when she was in her 40s.

Also recall that while I am doing all this kitchen prep-- with, let us be reminded, pans and knives that I had brought because all hers are bad --she is bumbling around preparing what she referred to as peach cobbler. If you can call a Jiffy yellow cake mix with canned peaches dumped on top cobbler. Which I can't.

And that when everything was on the table, they needed ice water, which they got in my way preparing.

Mainly I write this to remind myself that when I'm old, you don't need to be making me a Thanksgiving dinner. Kids take note.