Thanksgiving Camping Trip Oops!

 

Hello Readers, thank you for dropping by. Don't forget that while you're reading this true story to count the number of times I've used the word that means 'blunder' or 'disaster' then in the comments section tell me the name of the word and the number of times I've used it in the story. Happy Reading! A drawing will be held and the winner announced at 7:00 PM tonight. 

My family has always enjoyed camping. Our only modern convenience was a two burner propane camp stove and a tarpaulin stretched over a fold-up table. Several years ago, we decided a Thanksgiving campout would be fun. What we didn’t figure on were the ‘oops’ that would happen.

Cooking a Thanksgiving dinner with turkey, dressing, gravy, pumpkin pie and all the other goodies would take a lot of prep time and hours of cooking over an open fire. When I read an ad in the paper that a local grocery store was offering fully prepared Thanksgiving dinners, I had an ‘ah-ha’ moment. I could feed five people for less than $35.00.

The afternoon before Thanksgiving we picked up our packaged dinner. This is when the ‘ oops’ began. You see I, nor my sister, or daughter had ever bought a pre-cooked Thanksgiving meal. We thought thaw, heat, and eat. Right? Wrong! Oops!

We arrived at the campground late in the afternoon, set up our tent. Lo and behold, our daughter and teenage grandson had forgotten their tent. My sister had her pup tent. There was enough room for our daughter and grandson in our tent, but they’d have to sleep on the floor. Oops!

It rained that night. The temperature dropped leaving the tent floor cold and damp. Daughter and grandson dashed to their truck. Sister’s tent leaked. She scurried to her car. Oops and Oops! Have you ever needed to really go to the bathroom it’s after midnight and pouring rain and the campground outhouses are a long way from your tent? Ooops!

Thanksgiving morning was cold and wet. Brrr! We figured if the pilgrims could do it so could we. Sister, daughter and I opened the box that held our store bought dinner only to discover that it wasn’t heat and serve. Nope! Hmm, the oops were stacking up. The dressing was thoroughly mixed, but needed to be baked. The turkey was sliced, precooked and nestled in frozen gravy; the green beans and cranberry sauce were in cans, yay. The pumpkin pie was unbaked and frozen. Oops! What would the pilgrims do?

We set out on a wood gathering adventure. Have I mentioned that we were shivering cold? The thing is we never considered packing up and going home. If the pilgrims could celebrate Thanksgiving without the conveniences of electricity and modern kitchens, then so could we. The wood was wet and wouldn’t light—oops. It began misting rain—big oops. Hubby siphoned a bit of gas from our car to pour over the wood. WooHoo! We had a campfire and warmth.

We women doubled wrapped the turkey and gravy, and the pie in aluminum foil. As soon as we had enough hot ashes, hubby and grandson dug a hole and set the foiled packages inside, then covered them with ashes. Then they bunched a small fire. Thanks goodness for my trusty iron skillet which was perfect for cooking the dressing over the camp stove. While waiting for our Thanksgiving dinner to cook, we sat around the campfire and dined on peanut butter and banana sandwiches and hot chocolate. By six o’clock that evening and by lantern light we enjoyed a fully cooked Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings. In spite of all the oops, that campout remains our most favorite Thanksgiving of all time.

Don’t forget to post your answers below in the comments box.

LORETTA C. ROGERS

www.lorettacrogersnovels.com

 

Gravy Shame

Several years ago, I shamed myself, my ancestors, and the great state of Idaho. I didn’t mean to do it. After a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal with my extended family, I committed the unpardonable—I wasted the Gravy. They say that blood is thicker than water. In my family, Gravy is thicker than blood.

My family hails from Idaho, home of the humble Potato. We grew up in the mountains outside of Pocatello, and Potatoes were at the root of our existence. Dad grew a crop, enough to feed the seven of us with plenty to store for the winter. My older sister trudged home from her job at the potato chip factory reeking from the starch of ten million Potato peelings. When I was five, I got a penny for every Potato bug I captured. We ate spuds every imaginable way, but the family’s favorite will always be mashed Potatoes.

As any self-respecting Idahoan knows, the making of mashed Potatoes is an art. I once used potatoes that were not Idaho grown, and I made that mistake only once. My mom and sister were the Tuber Queens, and their skill at making them is legendary.

Even more sacred than the spud is that ultimate topping, Gravy. If a Potato won an Academy Award, she would thank Gravy first. Have I mentioned that Gravy and Potato are proper nouns in our family, and as a result, cannot be played in Scrabble?

My mother was the Goddess of Gravy, and before every holiday meal, she magically prepared it while my sister and I watched with open-mouthed awe. I was 52 before I was allowed to touch the gravy pan.

Then, on that fateful day, during clean-up time, I lost in seconds the honor it took me years to earn. The cleanup ritual began like any other year. We moved like sluggish zombies after a feed. My older sister stood at the sink, muttering Idaho-grown oaths like, “Great Grandma Grunt, what a freaking mess.” My older brother painstakingly picked the meat off the turkey, humming one of his original tunes.

I picked up the Gravy pan with both hands, scraping it into a plastic container. I put the pan in the sink.

My sister screamed. “What are you doing?” She snatched the pan out of the dishwater, but it was too late. Soapy water had mixed with the precious nectar left in the pan. Dread slapped me like a wet dishtowel. I had wasted three to four tablespoons of Gravy.

The kitchen turned deathly still, all eyes boring into me. I backed against the counter.

“Why?” My brother eyed me accusingly. “Why have you done this…heinous thing?”

We stood in this shameful tableau; the weight of their disappointment fell on me like a bad cake. I hung my head in shame—Gravy Shame.

“I couldn’t help it,” I squeaked. “I am made stupid by piggery.”

They didn’t disagree.

“I’m sorry,” I gulped.

Mom shook her head. “Sorry doesn’t bring the Gravy back.”

How would I ever be able to escape this shame spiral? Would my family ever forgive me? Most importantly, would I still be allowed pie?

I kneeled and grabbed my mother’s apron. “I do so swear, dear Goddess, I will never waste Gravy again. I will not leave one iota of that sacred nectar in the pan. I will lick that pan clean if it will win your sweet forgiveness. Please, I beg of you, for I am sore ashamed.”

My mom touched the top of my head and looked kindly upon me. “I see that you are sincere, and I will ponder the matter. Get up," she commanded. “There is still work to be done.”

I let out a breath. I would eventually be forgiven.

The years have gone by, and still I wonder: would I ever regain my ancestors’ esteem? Would this be the year that I am allowed to touch the gravy pan?

On the other hand, that’s one less pan to wash…

A Thankful Character

 Greetings!

Today I am interviewing my character Ian Pierce, the hero in the first two books of my Rhythm of the Moon series.  I've invited him to our American Thanksgiving dinner. I'm glad he likes children because there will be six of them.

By the way, please don't tell my husband. He doesn't know Ian's here. I have him tucked away in the basement. I'll break the news to him later, and I daresay he won't be surprised. Let's get started:

Me: Thanks for time-traveling to my neck of the woods, Ian. 

Ian: I'm never far away from you, my dear.

Me: True. You'll always be my first book hero love, but I know your heart lies elsewhere, as does mine. 

Ian: Yes, no one will ever match my Maggie, begging your pardon, Mistress.

Me:  You live in the 18th Century in the town of King's Harbour. Tell me how you met the love of her life.

Ian: Let's just say the circumstances were not ideal. We met at a graveyard. She was standing at her sister's grave and I was there mourning my brother, who had passed when I was traveling the world. I did not realize that I was singing. Music runs through my brain and pours out of me like a waterfall. 

Me: Then what happened? 

Ian: Her crying broke through my sorrowful melody, and I went to her. She blamed me for her tears, for opening her up to her grief. Despite her refusal, I walked the midwife home, and as we talked, I admired her strength and resolve to forge ahead and take care of her brother-in-law and her sister's infant child, despite her sorrow.

Me: Then something unexpected happened.

Ian: (Memory glazed his green eyes, making them shine like emeralds.) Yes. I returned to the graveside that night to discover that her sister Sarah's grave had been disturbed, and she was alive, barely.

Me: That must have been shocking and terrifying for everyone.

Ian:  Indeed, but my Maggie took action, and I found I wanted nothing else but to help her with her sister's recovery. She was not herself. And thus began our macabre and supernatural journey to bring her sister back to herself, and to solve the mystery of who could have done this to her. It didn't take long before I loved her, body, and soul.

Me: You returned to King's Harbour to take over the family's apothecary shop. You have training as an apothecary as well as a musician. Why did you travel the world?

Ian: (He looked down at his long, slender hands, and lifted his head again, in his eyes a sweetness that made my stomach flip over.) I have an affliction. It began when I was a young boy. I have periods of great energy, and I think I can conquer the world with my music. I cannot control it. Ideas and music pour out of my head. I cannot sleep, I cannot concentrate. They call it manico-melancholicus. Then come the down times, where I'm thrown into an abyss of sorrow. So I traveled, playing music to make my coin, and searching for remedies. 

Me:  You suffer from what we now call bipolar disorder. Were you successful with your search?

Ian: I learned some techniques along the way to calm myself...somewhat. Then I met Maggie. Her love does not take away my affliction, but to have her love soothes me so and fills me with purpose. 

Me: She sounds like a strong, loving person.

Ian: Yes. (A huge grin lit up his face.)

Me: I want to prepare you for something.

Ian: (His sandy eyebrows rose.) Sounds intriguing.

Me: Before we eat our meal on Thanksgiving, we go around the table and say what we're thankful for. What are you thankful for?

Ian: Oh, I'm beyond thankful for my Maggie. Not only is she strong, beautiful, and capable beyond measure, but she accepts me and loves me for who I am.  Her passion knows no bounds. Though I am full of regret that I am at times not a whole man, she says we will take care of each other, that I give her joy, make her laugh, and fill her soul.

Me: It sounds like you have a lot to be thankful for. I must warn you: our dinners are rowdy, with two toddlers, a four-year-old, seven-year-old, and two teenage girls. And loud adults.

Ian: (He had a contagious laugh, and I joined him.) Do not fret, my dear lady. I frequent the Siren Inn, the most raucous and popular inn in town. Your family surely can't match the rowdy sailors and merchantmen who frequent the place.

Me: (Still laughing.) Don't be too sure. Thank you for the conversation, Ian. I'll bring you up when the time comes. Thank you for your patience.

Ian: (Picks up his lute.) I shall compose a song for our feast. Until Thanksgiving, madam.

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The first book in my series is Mercy of the Moon. I hope you enjoyed the conversation with one of my favorite characters.