Fourteen years ago my now husband threw me into his family’s Thanksgiving pool for 12 hours and didn’t come and see me once. There were sixty people and I was bait.
Two ladies came up to me, M and S, and asked if I would go with my boyfriend (fiance but no-one knew because we had to meet all the parents) to a new city. I was wise enough to say, “that depends upon my last name.” I tried to keep my last name but gave in.
M’s eldest daughter is getting married. I remember teaching her and her cousin cooking classes when they were kids. First time we met, her cousin looked at my shoes and said “Nanny has shoes like that.” Sassy. K was shy and kind. I always thought she had big thoughts she didn’t share.
I’ve a beef with the future husband. Two, actually. There will still be 50-60 at Thanksgiving but he hasn’t run the gauntlet I did. Interviews with Nanny and my husband’s parents. And as a guy he’ll never have to make a pie or wash dishes. He’s immune because he’s a guy, so he gets to watch the Game. The Game, Aggies. Well, there’s a third. My husband’s cousins M and S put him down their laundry chute once. I think we have to rent out their old house for an hour and place the new husband down the chute. Come on, the gals who bake, cook, make 100 dishes for Thanksgiving then clear plates and do all the dishes then make you leftovers six hours later and do those dishes deserve something!
Sorry my little M. Bride to be, very soon. I wish you and your husband everything for a wonderful life. And we’ll try to be kind on Thanksgiving. In praise of marrige, its freedoms and restraints. Dee
Cooking with Dee 