Friday, September 17, 2010


Thanksgiving is always hectic. This year it was made more hectic by the fact that my husband and I were moving into our first home. It was only 2 miles from our apartment, but the distance felt immeasurable as I basted the turkey and wondered how much longer before my glass baking dishes would arrive. I picked up the phone, which I found buried in a pile of clothing, and called. "Hi sweetheart. Have you found the baking dishes yet? No. Okay. Keep looking or our feast will be lacking. Oh, and I can't find my teaspoons. Can you look for those too? Great! Hope to see you soon."

I hung up and went back to what use to look like a kitchen. The counters were covered instill packed boxes. Old newspapers littered the floors, once having served as coverings to keep glass items from breaking. The sink was full of discarded potato peels, onion chunks, dried bread, etc. I'd set up a card table in the dining room for food preparation, but the actual cooking and clean-up had to occur in what had become a tiny space barely large enough for one person and an oven door.

I breathed out. It was useless to put the casseroles and desserts together without the proper dishware or measuring devices. I walked over to the sink and glanced down at the impressive mound of food. After turning th water on, I flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and listened to the mechanism below grind up the food. Suddenly, it began to choke. I turned the machine off and sent more water down the drain.

Only it wouldn't go down. It simply continued to rise in the sink. With it came small pieces of food. I grabbed a spoon and unpacked the food from the drain, assuming it was just too full. I turned the machine back on. Water bubbled up at me and I heard the machine grind to a nasty halt. In my shock, I didn't notice that even though the machine had stopped, the water continued to flow up and then over the sink and onto my brand new floor. I slipped and fell on mushy bread, my new pants ruined.

As I used the edge of the sink to pull myself up, water flowed over my arm, carrying bits of onions, lettuce, and carrot. I slapped the water off and ran to the closet for towels, forgetting that they hadn't been brought over yet. Dripping with frustration, I dialed my husband again. "The garbage disposal just threw up. I need someone to bring over towels."

There was a mute moment on the phone. In the background I could hear the grunts and groans of men moving heavy items. Tink, tink, tinkle. "They must be moving the piano," I thought.

"What do you mean the garbage disposal threw up?" he finally said.

"I mean I turned it on and it kind of worked in reverse. The floor and me are covered in turkey stuffing and mashed potatoes. Could you please bring over several towels?"

He sighed heavily. "Call a plumber."

"Seriously? On Thanksgiving?"

As I finished asking, I heard him yelling to whom I presumed was his father. "Why don't women know you can't put potato peels in a garbage disposal?"

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

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