It's Thanksgiving week, and I can't say that I'm all that excited for it. But we won't go into that; Today, I'm going to share with you a Thanksgiving memory.
When I was around six years old, I was really excited for Thanksgiving to roll around. This is a tradition that my mother rarely practices anymore, but she used to buy me a medium or large sized stuffed animal on every holiday. I still have the big brown, red-eared "turkey dog" she got me one year. I wasn't excited for the food. I've never really liked "Thanksgiving foods" aside from cake, cranberry sauce, and macaroni.
"You have to taste a little bit of everything, Sierra. You have to. Don't skip out on the greens."
Whiningly, I protested, but I eventually gave in. When Thanksgiving came, I sampled the potato salad, the dressing (I still gag thinking about the taste of it), the painfully dry turkey, the biscuits that were drenched in some monstrous mix of butter and margarine, green beans, green bean casseroles, and some of the chocolate cake (I've never liked chocolate, so I literally requested a slither). After tasting each and every one of these foods, I refused to swallow. I spat out every single chewed bit of unwanted food on a large plate. When I was done, I deposited the plate in my mother's lap.
"What the hell! Girl, what is this?" My mom had squawked.
Giggling, I'd said, "You said taste."
To this day I still only eat some macaroni, some cranberry sauce, the tiny carrot cake (NO RAISINS) that is made specially for me, and drink some kind of sparkling drink that makes my eyes water in pained satisfaction. Thanksgiving, Ba Humbug!
Happy early Thanksgiving, readers. I hope that you are all happily comatose with food.