Flying Turkeys--Lucy Whitman Sandmeyer

Thanksgiving in my house is rarely in my house so doesn’t have much consistency. We usually meet with some part of my extended family in one way or another and when we don’t, we have friendsgivings. The only thing we always have is mashed potatoes. Seriously. Because otherwise there’s no point. Thanksgiving is definitely not my favorite holiday, which is surprising because of how much I like food and the season. Something about it just never sits right with me. Not in like a moral way or anything it just always feels a little weird. Never will it be as weird as the time I went to a cabin in Pennsylvania. That year we were hanging out with some close-as-family friends that we alternate seeing on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Turns out, we got both. They live in State College but decided to meet us in the south of the state so we could go on nice walks and drive less. Anyway we showed up (my mom, my dad, our foreign exchange student and me) and met with them (Andy, his daughter Ellie, and his sons Jack and Henry) to get the keys to this little cabin we rented in a tiny town near Falling Water. We make it to the cabin and there were a bunch of Christmas lights on the outside, which was weird but we let it slide. We walked in were accosted by decorations, all of them Christmas. I’m talking hundreds of Santas covered every surface, a few nativity scenes, a lot of Marys, and tons of other Christmas themed junk. It was kind of horrific but also plain hilarious. Still, once we found the table under the reindeer, we had a pretty nice meal.