Thanksgiving Giggles

It’s Thanksgiving, the day when families around America gather to enjoy each other’s company, feast on turkey, and maybe, like us, add a few more stories to their repertoire. Here follows a few of my favorite Thanksgiving stories. They may not have been funny at the time, but they did improve when retold. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent—or something like that.)

Thanksgiving I

My husband, Richard, came home from visiting an elderly lady from our parish, glowing with excitement. That’s NOT his usual state, in case you wondered.

            “Guess what? Miss Jones told me that, when she was young, she was classmates with Warren Buffet. Apparently, when they grew up, he asked her and other friends to invest $10,000 into his new company. She asked his mother, who advised against it, because ‘he will never amount to anything.’ Miss Jones didn’t do it and has always regretted it.”

            “Wow! I guess people’s life stories can still surprise us. Speaking of people and surprises, I’ve been planning our Thanksgiving. I already invited Mike’s grandmother, and she’s coming along with Mike (a troubled teen). I also asked a physician from work, Dr. Mubiru, to come. He told me that his brother, Damba, who has AIDS, will be here visiting from Uganda then, and he invited him. Perhaps we also should invite Miss Jones.”

            Richard shrugged. “Why not? A doctor, a sick man, four teenagers, two old ladies, and us. Should be interesting. Again.”

            It was. I’ll never forget my three children’s round eyes as they listened to the grandmother recommend magnets as a treatment for AIDS to the emaciated, but polite, Damba. Then, they noticed Dr. Mubiru trying to discourage Miss Jones from pulling up her skirt to show him her ulcer. But the final straw? That would be when Mike let a few choice words slip, and Damba tried them out, thinking they were a regular part of speech.

Thanksgiving II

“Um, Richard, I’m afraid I may have invited more people than we can fit for Thanksgiving this year. You know I really hate the idea of anyone being alone.”

            “Who’s coming?”

            “Well, I invited Georgi and his friend Akello. I also invited Mary and her mother, Letitia. That makes six young people, including ours. And, you know, the Ukrainian lady who keeps coming over to beg for food, Olha? Yeah, I felt sorry for her. Finally, I gave a general invitation to all 150 of my college students. Fortunately, only three of them are coming; one is an ex-convict.”

Richard counted in his head. “With us, that’s 13 people. Well, we’ll have to make it work.” My English husband is not easily stressed.

“Oh, I forgot! The student from Egypt I had last semester? Horus? He’s coming, too.”

            We managed to seat everyone by slanting the table and bringing in an extra one. Then, what an exciting time we had!

            Apparently, Georgi, who was new to the USA, had never tried sweet potato with marshmallows before. He started the circus by taking a heaping helping, trying a bit, and spitting it out in disgust. I quietly gave him a new plate. Georgi then took the bowl of mashed potatoes and emptied it onto his plate, while muttering that it was the only edible thing on the table. Akello, wanting to comfort his rather distressed friend, took his hand. That did not help! Horus, a gentle soul, just stared at his plate.

            As the meal continued, my attention was drawn to Olha. She was telling Letitia all about how sleeping on the floor and exercising before bed kept her healthy. To my amazement, the three students, Mary, and my children looked on silently. Maybe it was too crazy to be believed, and they were just choosing to ignore it all. Or perhaps the mix of accents and people from six different countries was more than they could keep track of.

After dinner, the two women disappeared downstairs, where I later found a virtually naked Olha demonstrating her exercise routine while the very reserved Letitia stood by red-faced. Apparently, exercise is better done without the encumbrance of clothing. I encouraged Olha to get dressed, only too glad that the rest of the guests were still upstairs. Presumably, each was trying to understand what the other was saying.

Thanksgiving III

Then there was the Thanksgiving that outstripped all others. This one started with me deciding to brine the turkey. I’d seen my son do it, and it tasted wonderful. Trouble is, I took a shortcut. Not having a container that would fit the giant turkey, I put it in the bathtub, filled the tub with cold water, and added what I thought was a lot of salt. I didn’t measure it. After all, it was a lot!

            On Thanksgiving morning, I went to the bathtub to fetch the turkey. Upon opening the door, I was nearly bowled over by the stench. The turkey was slimy and definitely not edible. The problem was that we were having guests again. Would any stores even be open? Would they have turkeys? My ever-patient Richard went out to see and, phew, he found one. In no time, the turkey was cooking, and I began working on the rest of the meal.

            Then our guests began to arrive. Apparently, some of them had not received the memo that nobody needed to bring food. We said we would provide the entire meal. In no time, I found that the pans I had cooking were being moved to the side to make room for theirs. And the oven, in which I was baking a temperature-sensitive dessert, was not only opened, but the temperature was changed. Argh!

            The meal began in the same vein. The table was set with the best china and enough serving dishes for what I’d planned. But. The table groaned under the weight of way too much food.  Then, to make matters more interesting, one of the helpers tripped. The laden china serving dish went flying and broke, scattering food around the table. After we finished cleaning up and comforting the embarrassed helper, we all sat down to eat. Or so we thought.

            “We forgot my signature dish!” came the panicked exclamation.

            Another guest jumped up and fetched an overfull dish from the oven. Since it was too hot to put on the table, she served us, not noticing that the liquid from the dish was dripping onto the carpet. I quietly handed her a tea towel, which stopped the stream, but the carpet was sodden with orange-colored goop. Quickly placing my napkin over the stain, I prayed that keeping it wet until the guests went home would prevent a permanent mark.

            But even this didn’t work. She noticed the napkin and quickly picked it up, put it on her upholstered chair, and sat on it. What to do? I opted to tell her, since her dress could be ruined. She jumped up, beginning to scrub at the stained seat with the dirty napkin. Not very helpful. Then she noticed the tea towel on the carpet and picked it up to use on the chair. That revealed the stain underneath, and the waterworks began. I assured her we would clean it after dinner, and finally, we began to eat.  

            Halfway through the meal, I found myself stifling giggles. After all, this meal would have made a great sitcom. Not wanting to embarrass anyone with my inability to control my laughter, I got up to ostensibly do dishes. One of the guests came out to “help,” catching me with tears of laughter streaming down my cheeks. I didn’t explain. How could I?