When I was super little, my mother was still quasi-determined that we spend time with our extended family. And Thanksgiving is a time for family.
We would drive over to my grandfather and step-grandmother’s house. My step-grandmother was not the maternal type or a good cook. One year, she tried to microwave the turkey. Yep, you read that right: microwave the turkey. I ate only olives that Thanksgiving. It was a sad, sad day in my little life.
The last year we attended Thanksgiving, I was sick. So sick that I was allowed to sleep on the couch instead of being forced to spend time with my cousins.
My nap was eventually ruined by the police pounding on the front door. My cousins had gotten bored and decided to break into my grandfather’s garage to see why the garage was locked. Of course they set off the fancy alarms and the cops showed up five minutes later. There was lots of yelling. My grandfather was furious. But on the upside, my mother decided that we didn’t need to attend the family meals anymore. We started eating Thanksgiving dinner at home. My mother never once tried to nuke the turkey.