Thanksgiving Stuffing

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. This blog puts me on the cusp of 200 blogs. This is number 199. I don’t know if I have a special 200^th edition or if I will find a regular shiny bauble to interest me into writing. We shall see. I do think that 199 is pretty epic.

You will remember from the last post that big doings were in the offing. Nephew Max was coming back to the scene of his greatest epicurean feat. Two years ago, he had eaten 7 honey buttered yeast rolls. It had started out as adoration for the roll. Out of all of the food on a fabulous Thanksgiving spread, Max chose the roll to love. There was turkey, and stuffing, mashed potatoes and noodles, some celery cut up and a carrot for veggies. There was pie by the half dozen with whipped cream piled high but it was the yeast rolls that caught young master Max’s eye.

In anticipation of the great day, I had immortalized Max’s feat of intestinal fortitude. Sibling and cousin love being what it is, my tome of gastronomical encouragement became a challenge for brothers and cousin. As everyone arrived after their arduous trek over rivers and through woods, I heard the first faint rumblings of competitive juices. Suddenly, we had three big eaters laying claim to the best. Three teen tummies denying themselves the cheeseball and cracker appetizer that the older grazers were brunching through. The wise ones in the room knew from experience that these sprints for glory are well past us. One should take it slowly when warming up to the task of annual gluttony.

Sensing competitive shortages ahead, the lovely Miss Beverly sprinted into action, pulled out another bag of flour, reopened the tub of yeast and doubled the roll recipe. She is a lovely life saver that Miss Beverly. As one o’clock rolled around, the noodles were done, the potatoes were smushed, the stuffing stuffed and the pies were sliced. It was time. Lord bless this food and the family. Thank you for the blessings of the past year and may the best boy win.

Before the eating could begin, the ritual talking had to take place. It is the American way. All of sports radio is a testament to the importance of talking about what you are going to do before you do it, or talking about what you are not going to do because “talkin ain’t walkin” as my grammatically challenged grandpa used to say.

“Wait a minute boys. How many rolls are you going to eat?” Sam the bold immediately responded, “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen? Well you better put those mashed potatoes, noodles, cheesy macaroni, and turkey back.” “Nah, I’ll be fine.”

“The heck you will. But never mind; go ahead, fill up and lose focus with all of those other goodies. Just don’t be disappointed when the “I told you so’s” come out later when you lose steam and don’t make your goal of 15.”

Fifteen was a well thought out goal. Sam the bold is 14. Any boy worth his salt should be able to eat his age plus one. In all fairness, Sam would have made Thanksgiving lore if it weren’t for the aforementioned carbs. There was still a chance. His plate had sensible servings. In fact, Sam sprinted out to a quick start. The arbitrary uncle’s council declared that we did not care how many were eaten before number 7. “Let us know when you get to number seven.” Let’s face it number one through seven is pretty boring. No one is going to throw up on one through seven. No one is likely to chew too quickly and have a roll go down the wrong pipe. The arbitrary uncle’s council is a lot of things but hovering and worrying about the preliminaries isn’t one of them. Our motto is “come back when you’re interesting in about 5 years.” Sam sprinted out to eight eaten when he faced a crisis. It is a crisis that we all face; a mini version of midlife. “I am midway to the goal. There is still a long way to go for success, and it will be hard to reach. Plus, I haven’t had any pie yet. It is a tough decision. I want to make the goal but that pie looks very good. I think that I will have a piece or two of pie.” Poof, goal is abandoned. Sam the bold’s count? Eight.

The beautiful thing about Sam’s boldness is that it cleared the way for Joe the sly, and Max the mighty. They were able to get in there and eat what they could eat without being targeted by the Uncle’s commentary.

Joe is the fleet footed “Illinois cousin;” a cross country runner of some repute. Obviously, he has an unfair advantage both on the course and at the table. “That boys got a holler leg” (thanks grandpa.) It makes him fast at cross country and a force at the feast table. He had kept pace with Sam. As Sam exited at the ramp to Pie-ville. Joe kept his foot on the pedal and kept rolling down the road. However, his cover was gone and the uncles were able to focus their laser like focus on the fleet footed one. We counted and watched. 11, . . . 12, . . . . . 13,. . . . . . . . . . 14, . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 was a bridge too far. It was a gallant effort. However, 15 was never Joe’s goal. It was Sam the bold’s goal. Joe was simply able to excuse himself, wipe the crumbs from his shirt front and go off to more esoteric pursuits.

Before we turn ourselves to the plight of young Master Max, I want to take a moment to commend Sam the bold. Certain uncles have been known to run a joke into the ground. Sometimes even hurting the feelings of the recipient. I have never recalled witnessing such running amok but I have had the opportunity to apologize for certain excesses in the past. Mr. Sam the bold stood up to the teasing quite well and even came up with a couple of great jokes himself. So good that he nearly caused his brother, Max the magnificent, to lose his good work by laughing uncontrollably with a mouth full of his sixth roll. That would have been “icing on the cake”; so to speak.

That left Max the mighty. He of the 7 roll fame two years ago. He is a smart one that Max. He kept his goal simple. “One more than my brother.” That would make 9; nine rolls to glory. One bite at a time Max slowly worked his way to the goal. He would take the roll break it into pieces and slather each piece with honey butter to help everything go down. As mentioned earlier, there was a near crisis at roll 6. A fit of laughter caused by a helpful brother nearly sidetracked Max’s climb to greatness. 7, 8, 9; it was done. He had made it. Fist bumps all around. It was time to go play with the cousins.

Isn’t it great to boldly proclaim even if you fall short? Isn’t it great to hang in there and put away 14 yeast rolls and not throw up? Isn’t it great to beat your older brother? I love Thanksgiving.

Take care.

Roger