This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2014, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
I just got back from the grocery store where my wife sent me to get 90 pounds of potatoes. Thanksgiving is four days away, and she wants to make sure we have enough of everything.
Also on the list were 10 gallons of ice cream, 4 pounds of butter, 11 cans of packed pumpkin, napkins, raisins, 110 Granny Smith apples, and Tums.
Wait. Damn it! I forgot the bucket of cranberry sauce. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back.
T-Day preparations at our house begin a week prior. It takes that long to do and make everything just right. And traditional. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, yams, carrots, three kinds of rolls, and seven kinds of pie — all of it homemade.
My wife is a Thanksgiving perfectionist. She's also Canadian. The last time I crossed her over Thanksgiving was our first Thanksgiving together, when she said it felt strange to celebrate it in November and not October, as she was accustomed to back home in the Arctic.
Since we were still adjusting to being married, I made the mistake of suggesting that only a dim and backward people would celebrate Thanksgiving in October.
Civilized people understood that October was the month reserved by God for Halloween, National Mothers-in-Law Day, and other celebrations of monstrous renown.
Yeah, that didn't go over well. In fact, I still flinch when I think about Thanksgiving 1975.
Thanksgiving Day is my wife's day. She is an unforgiving mistress of a well-appointed table. Everything has to be just right. My job is much less complicated. I'm to shut up, follow orders, and wash dishes. Lots of them.
The only time I'm allowed to touch the food is when I get sent to the store for it, or when it's time to carve the turkey.
Speaking of which, it's anathema in my home to eat ham, fish, pheasant, tofu, prime rib, mutton, or anything else that didn't gobble before it was killed. For 39 years the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving table has been a turkey.
At first the turkey was of a normal size. But as the family grew, so did the turkey. Last year we ate one the size of a houseboat that required being carved with an ax.
It won't be too bad this year. At least half of our mob will be going to someone else's house for Thanksgiving. It won't be the same without eight adults, nine grandchildren, at least two guests and four dogs squeezed around the table.
Doesn't matter. My wife will still work herself to the point of exhaustion making sure there are plenty of leftovers ready when the desserters finally show back up for pie.
I thought about suggesting that this year we save her all that work (and me all those dishes) by going to a restaurant for Thanksgiving.
Lots of eateries are open for people who don't want the bother and mess of making the day perfect. Some of my friends do just that, saying it's nice to eat turkey and pie, then just push back from the table and walk away.
Sounds perfect to me. I was just about to suggest it to my wife when a voice in my head said, "Thanksgiving 1975."
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.