Part One: On Cuisine and Good Cheer

I once had friends bring elderly parents to Thanksgiving dinner at our house. The mom pretty much acted like the cranky relative you try to avoid 364 days of the year. One would think she reserved crankiness for relatives, but you’d be wrong.

She interrogated me on the meaning of Virginia Ham and I pleaded ignorance. Apparently since I was born in The South, she KNEW I was withholding information on said ham. And she would not let up. It took other people intervening to end the grilling.

Then, after I finally sat down to eat, she demanded coffee. Not being a butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth Southerner, I replied coffee came with dessert.

My Cousin Cecil, my mom, and I were cut from the same querulous template. None of us were born with filters, much to the shame of Melanie Wilkes like cousins and such. We don’t blink, dither, white lie, or make excuses. Being the black sheep is a moniker we’ve borne.

I’ve tried to tone it down over the years, but that grown up Junie B. Jones persona still pops out at inappropriate times. Or should I say Weezer, since I relate to elderly women with no filters.

My sweet New York State husband has tolerated 30 years of my cantankerousness. Bless him. I’d get up from the dinner table to make him coffee anytime.

Searching for the breadcrumb trail I seem to have lost.

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