Thanksgiving is a time when many families gather for a day of thankfulness, feasting and football.
When I was a child, watching football was as constant as turkey and pumpkin pie. So, it’s not surprising that this tradition became an essential part of family Thanksgiving celebration.
In years past, I was designated as the “turkey expert.” My first priority was to be up with the sun to ensure that we ate by mid-day. Dinner couldn’t interfere with the start, finish or halftime of any game.
My daughter was the “watchdog;” she oversaw the turkey process to keep me on track and to guarantee the stuffing is “the same as last year.”
“Don’t mess it up, mom,” she warned.
Over several cups of coffee, we watched the sun come up and shared mother/daughter camaraderie.
Soon the aroma of simmering turkey would reach my husband and two sons, who would slowly emerge. They turned on the television and, between plays, came into the kitchen to make suggestions, “to ensure the success of the meal.”
“Hey mom, don’t put any mushrooms in the stuffing,” my youngest son said. “They’re gross.”
That triggered a quick debate with my daughter on the merits of mushrooms. Of course, they didn’t agree.
The suggestions continued. My oldest son always insisted Caesar salad had to be part of the menu. My daughter’s preference was mashed potatoes with garlic; both sons pleaded with me to skip the garlic and add Parmesan cheese.
My husband came in to ask if sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie were on the menu. I assured him we would have pie, but no sweet potatoes.
He walked away muttering, “Why don’t we ever have sweet potatoes?”
I reminded him that I am the cook, a role I would be happy to relinquish, if HE wished to make the sweet potatoes. He would then retreat.
Amid these exchanges of harmony and goodwill, a football game thundered in the background.
When at last dinner was ready, the TV was reluctantly turned off. We’d take a moment and give thanks for being together.
Then, nervously glancing at the grandfather clock, we tried not to rush through our meal.
We did, however, breathe a collective sigh of relief as we finished our dinner within the allotted time.
Finally, as I started to relax, my family fled into the den. Someone reached for the remote and, instantly, the sound of primal grunting and crashing bodies filled the room.
As I was left alone at the table, gazing at the remnants of the meal that took all morning to create, I almost regretted having encouraged such football fanatics.
Then, in unison, they thanked me for a great meal and persuaded me to join them.
I settled in on the sofa between my sons. Together we watched the game unfold, and I concluded football on Thanksgiving is a good tradition after all.