Before you get upset with me for submitting a rerun, I have to state that I generally utilize one annually in honor of Thanksgiving. However, this is not my usual Thanksgiving piece. Therefore, even though it is elderly it is not the standard column that I run every year at this time. If memory serves, I only used this particular one once. Not to mention, but I will, we suffered a loss this week when our dear cat Sir Sly Cooper Lightning Tail was hit and killed by a car. The operator of said vehicle did not bother to stop. I shall unleash the rage generated by that situation in an upcoming piece. We are in mourning and I cannot muster any sort of creativity currently.
Dressing for dinner & other foreign concepts
The following isn't too terribly interesting but at least I'm making an attempt. What I'm trying to say in a very delicate manner is that if you don't care for this column, heed these words... No hard feelings, as it really isn't that compelling.
I shall now move along to the topic, since I've met my first goal of confusing the reader in the intro.
Since I haven't talked about Mother for about 15 minutes, I thought that I should. I'm certain that she has felt neglected and I'm here to right my wrong.
As you may have ascertained by now, I am a casual woman. For instance, I don't freak over whether or not every hair is in place and I'm not overly concerned about the latest clothing fads.
Nor do I require my holiday food to be presented on the best of china and placed on display, like museum relics.
These examples land me in a parallel universe from one Jacqueline H. Houserman, aka, my wonderful mother.
What lies below is a true story about Thanksgiving. It won't be as captivating or as filled with imagery as Truman Capote's “A Thanksgiving Visitor.” However, it's the best I can do so deal with it—I'm so charming, aren't I?
See, when I head next door to Mother's house for a meal, I usually wear my lounge clothing. If you've kept up with this ridiculous column for any period of time, you might recall that my cozy outfits tend to resemble the attire of hobos and I mean no offense to such individuals.
Moving along, Mother and I were chatting on the phone prior to Turkey Day when she imparted some vital information. She declared that we would be dining upon dishes given to her by a very special person.
I was exceptionally excited over the prospect of inhaling food from extravagant plates, as you can imagine.
She followed the above-mentioned statement with direct orders to refrain from schlepping across the yard, to her home, in nightclothes. What? The nerve of that woman to forbid such a thing.
I asked if the givers of said dishware were attending the holiday meal and when she answered in the negative, I was very puzzled. In essence, she wanted the dinner to be special, as she put it, and clearly, donning pajamas splattered with last year's gravy stains was not going to cut it this time around.
I actually asked Mizz Etiquette if we were dressing, as she calls it, in order to impress said dishes. I don't think she was very delighted with my sarcasm.
You see, the old saying, “dress for dinner,” means something totally different to Mother than it does to me.
In my opinion the definition would be to clothe oneself in something—anything, as to not cause the meat to leap from the table in a suicide pact with the stuffing.
For Mother it means to sport a prom dress and a tiara—like she does whilst gardening and/or running to the hardware store.
As for the actual presentation of the holiday meal, that crazy chick literally, not figuratively, but literally, utilized sticky notes in front of the hot plates so that we'd know what food item was to be placed where. I actually took a photo of that because I figured no one would believe such a Thanksgiving tale.
We have actually hosted the meal here, in our humble shoe-box, in the past. When that unfolded I believe I served the feast on paper plates. These weren't any old run-of-the-mill paper products as they were the super durable, strong and tough brand.
No labeling of what was to be placed where occurred because we slopped the meat, potatoes and other side dishes directly from the pan to the plate. Why bother messing up some fancy-schmancy serving platter or dish?
Moving back to Mother, she would never, in a year of Thursdays, use the cooking pans for food serving purposes. The whole thought is simply appalling and we will not sink to that level.
In other words, everything—and I don't just mean Thanksgiving dinner, but ALL meals are transferred from the stove top/oven to a classy vessel of servitude. Wow, how was that for a description?
Also, you know those large deals that go under the actual plate like in a five-star eatery? Well, those things, (not sure of the technical name), are something with which she could not live without.
In comparison I think that a good old-fashioned paper towel under the plate works just as well. Not to mention, but I will, that it is a disposable item. That is the key to all meals in this home. If it needs to be cleansed then forget the address, as Mother would say.
OK, I must exit stage left and suddenly. The reason is because my macaroni and cheese, from a box, is ready.
I must dash in order to dress for dinner. I will coordinate my outfit in a fabulous fashion so that it matches our fine china. (We define fine china as the pan in which the meal was cooked, by the by.)
Well, I hope that Mother is super proud of her fabulous offspring. Certainly she will explode with joy when she spies this piece—and rightly so.
THE END.