John Henry he could hammah, he could whistle, he could sing; he went to the mountain early in the mornin' to hear his hammah ring

I have never witnessed a paradigm Thanksgiving. Because we live far away from the rest of our relatives, our dinner usually involves only four people. But even then, they always entailed food flying, tears being shed, and a very upset mother.

My mother has always been tolerant of informal dinner behavior. She does not expect us to give thanks or sit properly or lay our napkins on our laps. But one thing she yearns for is an idealistic Thanksgiving. So naturally, my brother and I chronically misbehave. One year I bawled through the entirety of the meal because some idiot put corn in my mashed potatoes. Another year, the turkey was so dry we drowned our food in ketchup and steak sauce. Several years ago, my brother and I fashioned hammers out of baked potatoes and forks and proceeded to recite The Legend of John Henry for the entire dinner. Just last Thanksgiving, my brother spilled cranberry juice all over the white tablecloth. My uncontrollable laughter earned me a boot from the dining room. Every year we end up force-feeding my brother.

Following the meal, our two cats scavenge for scraps of turkey or ham on the floor and raid the butter dish on top of the table. Ultimately, our pets probably gain more weight than we do.

Because we’ve been so disconnected from our family during Thanksgiving, the holiday never really meant much to me. But the bizarre nature of these dinners in the past has made them all the more memorable and enjoyable.