A traditional Thanksgiving dinner is served at my mom’s house. I crave the typical feasts of cheesy potatoes, green bean casseroles, and green jello with peaches, but I salivate over my mother’s pasta. This “tradition” started when I went through an anti-poultry tirade over the course of 4 or 5 yearly Thanksgiving meals. I gave up poultry completely after being the freeway partner of a chicken truck. Yes, a chicken transport truck. Obviously, that ship has sailed and I have once again enjoyed the skinless, boneless (and sometimes buffalo-sauced) feathered friends of the farm yard. But on Thanksgiving, I still expect pasta. My family is not Italian, so I don’t give a crap about your tomato-soupy flat sauce. My mom’s is loaded with zucchini and sausage and… well, I don’t know what else, but it’s a chunky marinara. And because I’m the oldest (and I command it), she boils “Choo Choo Wheels” as my noodle of choice.
Once a year where I am 8 years old again. Then my sister and I play the “Lick-the-hand-and-wipe-it-on-your-face” game with my brothers. I love holidays.
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