I am that member of the family. The one who asks her husband to cook the turkey.
I am looking forward to Thanksgiving this year. My mama is coming, we are going to my sister’s home, and my oldest daughter is already considering the menu and decorations. Did I mention she is nine? She did not inherit that from me. This first little leader of my family’s next generation is ready to turn party planning diva at the drop of the hat. She may run into some tricky entanglements when her plans and my sister’s collide, but they are planning on having a meeting to get on the same page. Bonus: I don’t have to plan all the things. I have designs on making desserts, playing games, and serious napping.
Take away all the pretense and the truth is: I want to be the memory maker not the food maker; however, I am a grown up and have figured out that sometimes these things go hand-in-hand. I am good at merrily bundling my kiddos up and skipping down streets Thanksgiving morning to deliver meals with our church to those who wouldn’t have them otherwise. I am not so good at making the food of Native Americans and their Pilgrim counterparts. Wait, are we really eating what they ate anyway? I am certain they didn’t have “Pilgrim kissed mac n’ cheese” to satisfy their three-year-olds. Never mind, I digress. The making of the food—a necessary evil of yummy goodness…
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