A Thanksgiving story

Can't I have a steak instead?

I’ve always been very lucky to have a family with a very liberal sense of humor. Once I reached the age of 16 I could pretty much joke about anything and get laugh from my mother. My mom came from a broken home and spent most of her life living in the ghetto of Philadelphia. She was lucky enough to meet someone (who I call my father, not my stepfather, who is her current husband) shortly after I was born and move away from that lifestyle. That ghetto girl swagger has never left her, and often manifests when she is challenged or pissed off.

When I was about 12 my father’s sister, Aunt Chel, lived across the street from us. She was a rather insane woman who I could easily rant about for a thousand blog posts. At this stage of my life I was a very picky eater, preffering only macoroni and cheese. Because of this, my Aunt formulated the idea that my mother would ONLY cook macaroni for me, and therefore I was starving.

About eight years later I was sitting at thanksgiving dinner with My mom, stepdad, uncle, and sister shortly after a very awkward visit with my Aunt Chel, recounting the horror of the visit. “Can you believe she said you were a horribly mother because you only fed me macaroni?” My mother would not have her good name dragged through the mud. She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a jumbo dish of homemade macaroni and a camera. We all knew what was about to take place, so we all gathered around the offending item of food for a photograph, and then sent it to my Aunt. That was the last time I ever talked to crazy Aunt Chel.


-Mike S.-


2 Responses to “A Thanksgiving story”

  1. bronzechains Says:

    This makes me love your mother, and love you even more.

  2. Love it!

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