wish you were here?

Dear blog reader;

 

I hope that this finds you doing well. Hopefully, like me, you are resurfacing from the tryptophan induced coma That you suffered as a result of the feast from Thursday. I know that after an extended weekend, I am nearly qualified for my Phd in blood chemistry manipulation; tryptophan down, pecan pie up, tryptophan down, pecan pie alamode up, tryptophan down, pecan pie alamode with hot fudge sauce up. Oh . . . Glorious day.

 

I am so thankful for this past weekend. It hit me this morning as I made my way out to a frost covered car. The glow on the eastern horizon announcing the sun's arrival for his short work day. It's orange tinge lit up my car. That was the problem. Only my car was there; lonely in its icy blanket. Just yesterday, it had been accompanied by two fellow travelers. At the weekend’s zenith, there had been ten cars parked around our tear shaped drive. It was the best festivus ever. What was going to be a small immediate family affair grew and grew into a full fledged multi-day sleep over. Cousins, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews all thrown together living large. 

 

There was the schooling that Aunt Bev gave nephew Austin at Words with Friends. Later, my esteem for Austin rose to monumental heights when he readily agreed to take out the compost. Austin, you are quickly becoming interesting.

 

There were numerous hands of demons. Demons is multi-player solitaire; which, I know, is oxymoronic. I hate being an oxymoron but there you have it. Imagine six or seven hyper competitive individuals standing around a table slapping down cards in suit order anxiously hoping that the person to their right or left will play that 7 of clubs setting them up for a three card run. A niece and daughter explosively shouting "crap" when they realize that the opportunity to play that pesky queen of diamonds just passed them by. A quick perusal of the board confirms that the next highest diamond pile is sitting on 5; meriting a triple "crap." A champion was crowned. An odds on favorite went down in ignominy. And like Peyton Manning who takes time to inspire the kids by signing autographs, Several aunts took time to play multiple games with the young cousins, sans the "crap" of course.

 

There were hoodlum nieces from IU taking mercilous ribbing in a loyal Purdue house.     Actually, the was one hoodlum niece who happens to be one of the most wholesome IU fans I know. There I go being an oxymoron again. As a gracious uncle, I gave her the joy of declaring my affinity for IU in the Bucket game. These were extenuating circumstances. A victory may have meant the retention of our head coach. A thought that would drive me to drink. You can imagine my surprise when I was able to have my pie, and my icecream, and my hot fudge sundae, with the bucket, a bowl, and a new coach.

 

The best part of the party? That was undoubtedly Mini Max discovering the joy of honey butter on warm yeast rolls. Max is one of the young cousins. He is very brave as demonstrated by his facing down 10 murderous dodgeball hooligans by his lonesome last December, also there was that incident where an over exuberant uncle used a power washer on him during power wash kickball. (Me just being a moron) All of the young cousins have reached the glorious age where they can get their own plates at feasts. In all honesty, they have probably been there for a while. It is my own  inattentive tendancies that have kept me from noticing that they have actually  a fair amount of independance.

 

Do you remember the first time you were able to fill your own plate; no oyster dressing, no cranberry salad. What dad? You didn't think that I noticed you piling up my plate so that the "goodies" would be all gone when you went through after you "got the children settled?" No, that first time was all noodles, potatoes, ham, mac and cheese, and three cookies. Don't worry I'll come back for desert. That was Thursday. I don't remember the first time either.

 

Max went though the line very level headed the first time. His eyes weren't bigger than his tummy, his grandfather's admonitions being properly channeled through the generations. Turkey, noodles, potatoes, mac and cheese and a roll with just a dollop of this runny butter stuff. He worked his way around the plate until his eyes lit up when he bit into the golden goodness of honey butter on a warm yeast roll. What was that cartoon character who when biting into his favorite food would levitate ten feet into the air and come floating gently to the ground? Yeah, that's him. It was just like that. (A hearty handshake and a pat on the back if you share your vast useless cartoon knowledge with the rest of us.)

 

Well, Max excuses himself from the table for seconds. Do you remember learning the lesson that you can't go through for seconds until everyone has gone through first? Hurry up grandma!

 

He comes back with 6 rolls and a big dollop of honey butter. He polishes off the first two quietly, when a generous host notices that the honey butter will not even out. She gets up and gets the bowl of honey butter and sets in front of him. What was a lonely solitary pursuit, has suddenly become very interesting. How many is that Max? "Three." "You got 4 more to go." "I know. They are so good and the honey butter . . ."

 

Number 4 went down. No trouble. Things slowed on number 5. Number six took cheers of "I say mini. You say Max. Mini. MAX, mini, MAX, mini, MAX." Number seven was easy, momentum being what it is. Although there was a bit of controversy while, the officials made sure there was nothing hiding in his cheeks.

 

I am left on Monday morning, in a peaceful sunrise. Thankful for all of the family that I was with and missing the family I will see soon. The best festivus ever, except for yours.

 

Take care.

 

Roger