Thanksgiving in my family has always been full of “adventure.”
There was the year of the Turducken, which was exactly the disaster it seems like it would be. My dad and aunts stayed up all night trying to get the thing to cook all the way through. It is still questionable whether or not they succeeded. That was the Turducken’s one and only invitation to the Kross family table.
Years before that, my dad (somehow) was responsible for the mashed potatoes. (My dad has, on EVERY attempt, made Kraft Macaroni and Cheese incorrectly.) However, Grandma Magno felt that he needed to participate that year. She set him up with her ancient Kitchenaid mixer, a pile of hand-peeled potatoes, and several sticks of butter and told him to get going while she went to dig who knows what out of the basement refrigerator. Probably one of these.
When she returned to the kitchen, she caught my dad scraping mashed potatoes off of her kitchen cabinets and back into the bowl to continue mixing. Frankly, they were pretty delicious that year.
Come to think of it, maybe it’s really just my dad that makes Thanksgiving such an adventure.
