‘Would you PLEASE move over?
The steamy gravy boat settled in unsteadily. Glass serving containers, each brim full with traditional Thanksgiving fare, found themselves ungracefully repositioned.
“You aren’t that important,” the sweet and sour pickles warned.
“Right, just because you’re hot doesn’t give you the right to melt our beauty,” the twirled dollops of butter chimed in.
“Alright everyone, Alright!” The table snapped to attention at Tom Turkey, now slow-roasted and fully basted, tapped his drumsticks together. “This meal, of which all of you share an equal part, is the high point of the year for many. Each of you...”
“I disagree,” the agitated cranberry sauce interrupted. “Most are anticipating, with great eagerness, my being here.”
“Yeah,” said the mashed potatoes softly to the beans, “ ‘cause this is the only meal where he’s invited. We’re here every day.”
“Yes, this is a special day for you,” Tom attempted to appease Cran Berry, but another voice arose.
“Truth be known, I am the most popular dish on this table,” bragged Kernel YellowKorn. “Eaters dig me first with the biggest spoon they got.”
“Excuse me, I have a ladle already installed,” the gravy boat objected. “So how can you say...”
“What about us?” A chorus of sweet voices gently approached from off table. “Just because you get set up over THERE doesn’t mean you are better than us over HERE.” Tom thought carefully before replying. It was true and they all knew it. The side table held all the cards. Pumpkin. Apple. Chocolates covered with layers of chocolate and topped by chocolate layers.
“While your presentation is apetizing,” the side table teased, “we’ve been sampled for the last thirty minutes.”
“Now, now, this is not about who’s the best,” Tom admonished. “This is all about providing a meal. A meal of Thanksgiving. This is the one holiday which seems uncommercializable.”
“What?” The salt shaker looked sideways at pepper. “Is that even a word?”
“You know what I mean,” the turkey’s skin seemed ready to pop. “This alone is a holiday where the stress level is lower.”
“We disagree...ah...with due respect,” sang a chorus of glasses. “From our view, we can see the kitchen and that woman seems to have loads of stress. She’s been at it since 6 am. Never seen her move that fast. She’s doesn’t seem to be having a holiday at all. If fact,” the glasses tilted sideways to examine each other, “we can’t decide if she half-filled us or left us half-empty.”
“Right,” added the jam dish. “She just sorta stabbed me with this dull knife here.”
“Sorry,” came a muffled apology from deep within the goo.
“OK, everyone,” Tom’s voice became commanding. “They’re coming. Getting ready for the prayer. Pay attention. Look your best. They’re gonna take pictures.”
“Pictures?” An urgent plea from the sweet potatoes split the tension. “Quick, someone get these white hats off of me.”
Don Cunningham of Fremont is a freelance columnist.