I’ll Be There For You
We celebrate Thanksgiving with my husband’s family on Thanksgiving Eve. It is a fabulous time with his mom, sister and family, and friends. We are not a family only kind of crew, and often we collect very interesting attendees, but this year it was a small intimate gathering of family and friends, food, traditions, and connections. We loaded up the counter to serve dinner buffet style. Everyone prepped the food they brought, nibbled as we set up the appetizers, carved the turkey, visited, laughed, and enjoyed the pandemonium as Grandma’s beautiful pair of half grown Great Danes rushed into the house every time a child inadvertently let them.
(When The Rain Starts To Pour)
After dinner, we cleared off the big dining room table and adjacent folding table that was set up to accommodate our crew. Out came the homemade gingerbread houses and all the icing bags (also homemade) and purchased candies and treats for decorating them. As we put away the food, I saw two trays, one large and one small, of deviled eggs in the refrigerator in the sun room. Suspecting they had been meant for dinner, I asked Grandma if that was actually the case, and yes, they had been but were forgotten in the other fridge. I giggled at the slip, we’ve all done it, and enjoyed the rest of the evening.
I’ll Be There For You
As we loaded up the car with our leftover food, Grandma (my mother-in-law) handed me the deviled eggs in their tray with its lid, and encouraged us to take them home. She knew we were attending another family dinner on Thanksgiving day, so I handed the tray to my husband who dutifully took them out to the car. We carefully loaded up our completed gingerbread houses, crockpot with what was left of the 10 pounds of mashed potatoes, my two children, my mother, husband and myself. We all held our own gingerbread houses, but I held Cayl’s too, since he was driving. I didn’t give a thought to the deviled eggs.
(Like I’ve Been There Before)
We made it about five miles from Grandma’s before the eggs made their presence known by sliding across the dash toward my side, crashed into the side of the front class, popped the lid off, and it landed between my feet, leaning against my legs. My hands clutched the gingerbread houses, and my mind froze. The eggs balanced precariously on the dash, jumbled out of their assigned nesting places in the plastic egg tray. Oh dear. Having a fondness for his mother’s deviled eggs (well, deviled eggs in general, really), my husband pulled over as quickly as he could and rescued the eggs. He shuffled them into their slots (no longer beautiful but serviceable), secured the lid, got back on the road to home, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. We’re all a fan of deviled eggs.
I’ll Be There For You
A few miles later, I realized that there was a weight on my lap that shouldn’t be. In the panic over the deviled eggs, my husband’s carefully crafted gingerbread outhouse had lost the integrity of its structure. Mile after mile, it disintegrated into a pile of rubbish, spewing hardened icing in my lap and on the floor of my mom’s car. I felt bad, responsible, and sad because that outhouse was so darn cute and creative. He had won the “originality” award (we don’t really have awards, but my former principal and friend, Justin Copley, was in attendance with his family and he and I compete in everything. Kindred competitive spirits we are. So we had the kids help us determine fun awards for everyone. My mom won “best use of worms” since she was the only one who incorporated the gummy worms onto her house.)
(Cause You’re There For Me Too)
Arriving home, everyone helped haul in the leftover food, gingerbread houses, and began putting things away. I was in charge of the potatoes, so I took the removable part of the crockpot out, walked over to the fridge, and opened the door. Before I had it all the way open, the deviled eggs crashed to the floor. The lid popped off, it had flipped upside down, and those delicious eggs splattered all over the floor and onto my bright purple converse. Everyone paused and stared at the horror at my feet. My husband dropped his head. He didn’t mean to booby trap them, but he had. Those eggs were clearly not meant to be eaten by us, and we mourned their loss for a few seconds.
You can extrapolate all kinds of messages and meaning from my sad tale of the deviled eggs. I have as I pondered this post, but I’ll leave you with the fun of applying your own meaning and message here. Think about it from the perspective of the gingerbread outhouse, a casualty of war. Think about it from the perspective of the eggs themselves, or the people involved who all share the guilt and blame for their demise. But most of all, enjoy the time you have with family and friends. Relish the food. Happy holidays.