Ruralite Cafe: Published 11/23/00

By Lisa Majors-Duff - News Editor

Conjuring up ghost of Thanksgiving past

I'm going to Florida and fixing this mess once and for all.

No, not the election. The lawyers, pundits, comedians and chad counters seem to have that situation well under control, especially the comedians.

No, I'm talking about my sister's insistence that we have cranberries from a can for Thanksgiving dinner.

"But why?" I asked in my whiniest, 3-year-old voice.

"Because if it's not from a can, embedded with can rings and hard to keep on the plate, it's just not Thanksgiving," Jennifer said of the Jell-O-like maroon mixture.

My mother agreed. "I like it, too," she simply said, along with my cousin Becky and aunt Vi... I'm thinking of demanding a recount. If that doesn't work, I may be forced to file a request for an temporary canned cranberry injunction with Judge (Cousin) Keith, our family's only lawyer.

I guess I understand how they feel about the cranberry sauce. Thanksgiving - more than the food or the stress of holiday travel or the endless football games - is about tradition and spending time with family and friends.

And thanks to my sister, that's exactly what we'll be doing this holiday season. Jennifer has gone to a lot of trouble to plan a family reunion for this weekend. We've all been invited to Orlando, where, after eating turkey and all the fixings for two days straight, we'll head for Disney World on what is thought to be the park's highest attendance day.

Jennifer wants this Thanksgiving gathering to be special, like when we were kids. And if that includes cranberries from a can and stuffing from a bag, then so be it. Instead of going to all the trouble of preparing an injunction, I will most likely toss some whole cranberries into the food processor, along with orange peel and sugar, and whip up an edible side dish.

As Jennifer and I conjured up the ghost of Thanksgiving past recently by comparing mental notes taken more than 20 years ago, we were having trouble finding common ground. I remembered the "kiddie table" and how I didn't mind so much the year Cousin Mark was no longer subjected to the humiliation of sitting with the "babies" because Cousin Jeff remained with us. I remember the kids using paper plates and string to make pilgrim costumes. I remember olives and pickles and cheese and crackers before the meal, turkey legs and tugging at the wishbone during dinner, and playing hide and seek in the dark after.

Being younger, Jennifer remembers almost none of this. In fact, she was calling on me to go over her menu items when the whole cranberry scandal came to light.

Instead of recounting cranberry chads (though they would probably taste better than Gore or Bush chads), I suggested my sister start a new tradition this Thanksgiving. For example, since she is fortunate enough to live in the great state of Florida during this remarkable time in our nation's history, she could be the first to gather the family around and lead them in a heartwarming rendition of this new and improved holiday favorite:

"Over the golf course and through the swamp
to Jeb Bush's house we go.
Dubya won't fret,
he'll get the job yet,
because his little brother says so.

Over the panhandle and through the Everglades
to Palm Beach County let's ride.
Where Al Gore must pray
there comes a new day
when the recount will turn the tide.

Over the orange groves and through Disney World
to Tallahassee they burst.
All lawyers know the way
to increase their pay
is to get to the courtroom first.

Over the gators and across the beaches
to the vote-counting rooms we go.
With one of each party,
let's pick Jean and Marty
though Katherine Harris says 'No.'

Over the mountains and through the snow
to Kennebunkport we spin.
George Sr., Barbara and Millie
think its all so silly
that Al won't give junior the win.

Over the beltway and across the mall
to Bill Clinton's house we go.
Thanksgiving is here
and we'll all give a cheer
when the winner we finally do know."

Editor's Note: My thanks to Cafe co-poet laureates, Lynn and Carey, for their insight; and to sports fan/columnist Greg Duff, who has grudgingly agreed to spend Thanksgiving with 22 of my relatives.

Back to Archive: 11/23/00.