When I first moved cross country I was Homesick. Missing the four seasons, the Hellman’s mayonnaise (not that ridiculous “Best Foods” label pretending to be Hellman’s), the family holiday gatherings. Our parents happily invited not only family, but all strays looking for a big, noisy meal. Jeanne routinely put Bob to work getting the extra leaves into the dining room table and she herself slaved over turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, zucchini bread and her famous Jell-O mold with fruit and sour cream.
So there I was sitting in my mint green dorm room – I was a Resident Director to a crew of wacky RA’s at a devoutly Catholic university – and I rang up the old New Jersey homestead to partake in the festivities from afar. Peter answered. In the background was the inimitable shriek of Jeanne yelling full volume at our father.
“She’s got him steaming out dents in the carpet with the iron,” Peter whispered.
“Holy cow, sounds like WWIII.”
“Yeah, she’s been howling since the crack of dawn.”
We giggled and I hung up. Suddenly, not so homesick.
Now the Lord & Master and I hunker down with my Lean Cuisine and his One Pot Wonder (anything I chop, saute and sauce up for him) and watch Turner Classic Movie channel. The true meaning of Thanksgiving, peace and quiet.