Off the Hook for Thanksgiving

Camo Beans

Things are getting more exciting as we plummet toward Christmas. Not only do we get treated to another (yawn!) presidential debate, it will soon be my favorite time, Halloween. My family will again go over the top in competing for the best costume. As usual, mine will be best. I plan on using my body to its best advantage and  masquerading as the planet Mars.
Yesterday, through a series of phone texts, the family decided on a locale for this year's Thanksgiving celebration. It will be at my daughter's house in Cincinnati. Instead of bringing a disgusting green bean casserole, or my latest discovery, camo beans, I was asked to come a day early and help reset the toilet. I'm very comfortable with wax rings; not so much with bathtub rings.

Mysterious object shown next to quarter.

There's a reason no one wants big family dinners at my house anymore.  Last Christmas, I made a spectacular soup, among other delights. The family was really scarfing it up until my son in law asked me what was floating in his soup. They were either the biggest peppercorns ever or something not meant for humans. It did, in fact, look like miniature dog food. In order to save my reputation, I spooned out the offending nuggets and popped them in my mouth.  I planned on faking delight, but the taste was so bitter and disgusting that even a good shot of wine would not kill it.  It was kibbled dog food.
There was nothing I could say to defend myself. The boys got out the brochure for the Silver Memories Rest Home, and began arguing about who would get my drill press. The girls rolled their eyes and did the hug mommy thing while winking at each other. The grand kids started digging through the Chex Mix looking for real nuts and bolts.
The humiliation continued until only one guest remained. My soon-to-be, almost. someday-maybe daughter in law was gathering her things, and suddenly said, "Look, my dog food container is open. I'm sure it was closed when I put it on top of the refrigerator." Game over. My fridge is right next to the stove where the once-delicious soup had been simmering. Apparently she flung dog food into my soup while putting it atop the refrigerator.
It was too late. The family story was already set in stone;  Grandma is wacko and let's not eat there anymore.
I felt badly for 15 minutes, until I realized I would stress no more over a stubborn turkey that wouldn't give up a drop of good turkey juice for gravy. No more pie making that made the kitchen look like it had been crop-dusted. No more scraping last year's bean casserole off the chairs.