THANKSGIVING THE WAY IT'S MEANT TO BE

My-T-Fine pudding.

Now, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout.

Thanksgiving just isn't like it used to be. It used to mean something man. It used to mean Sunday morning on a Thursday, complete with rolls 'n everything. It meant black olives on your fingers for appetizers. Yeah. It was once-a-year shrimp cocktail and "The March of the Wooden Soldiers" and screaming with laughter and repeating "ooooooohhhh the boogie man."

It meant my mother in a dutch oven apron (okay, it was the '70s) saying, "John, get them out of here before I kill someone!" and my Dad taking all six of us to the beach before the "one" my mother killed was him. It meant coming home to a warm house that smelled better than it did all year long, and a table set with my Mom's wedding china and stuffing in the helmet bowl and apple cider fresh from the cooler at the local Dairy Barn.

Dinner meant frozen string beans, canned cranberries, mountains of mashed potatoes and gravy with those gross little giblet things my mother insisted on chopping up and throwing in there.

Desert meant pie. Apple, Pumpkin, Mincemeat. (My dad actually ate that I think; or I'm having another Dickensian acid flashback). Or pudding. And Ready Whip. Had to have Ready Whip.

We fought over who would wash and who would dry. My Mom and Dad sat and smoked and drank cocktails the way parents should.

Then we sat on the couch, chair, or bench, or laid on the rug and watched TV -- probably in black 'n white.

Now that's a Thanksgiving to remember.