Mine will be bland, Midwestern, and dull to the point of madness.
Mrs. Homie and I will head to Grandma Jean’s house, where the family has been eating holiday meals for decades. Aunt Joanie, who is in charge, will tell us to be there at 11:30. What that actually means is that Mrs. Homie and I will leave the house at 11:45, make the five-mile drive, and be the first ones there. Others will start turning up around 12:00 or 12:30, some stragglers won’t be there until around 1:00.
When the last of the stragglers shows up, the oven will finally be turned on for the breads & casseroles & such. There will be much talking about the best order to cook things in, but it will be a solid 45 minutes before anything is actually put in there.
When the food is finally out of the oven (around 3:30), Cousin Mandy will ask if she can pray. She will say three Hail Marys, four Our Fathers, recite the Nicene Creed, thank God for every soldier who died in war this past year (naming them each by name), and invoke God’s blessing on Our Great President Donald Trump.
After a meal of uninspired, bland, Midwestern food (the meat cooked to the point that you can snap it in half), the family will retire to the next room for “visiting.” That means that they will spend hours poring over minutiae like the pilot light going out in the furnace at Hooten Holler First Baptist, or Maudy Frickett needing gall bladder surgery.
I will bring a fun board game to play, and everybody will look at me like I have horns growing out of my head. After two hours of crushing boredom, I’ll drive home and Mrs. Homie will get a ride from her mom. Then Mrs. Homie will give me an earful about being rude and leaving early.
I hate Thanksgiving, if you haven’t already guessed.