Take Me To Post Comment Form Here is a little food fiction based loosely on my family. I hope you enjoy.

This is a story for the new kids that have just joined the Food Jabbering Nation. So if you’re a veteran of this twisted culinarian, hang in there and keep your hands inside the margins at all times.


We open our Thanksgiving blog/fictional tale in a non descript-any-town U.S.A. (but similar to Oakdale)with the narrative provided by your favorite guitar playing, crime solving, dare devil, Photographer/Chef……. Me.


And so my dear friends, the time comes to give thanks once again. The leaves have fallen, for the most part, to the ground. The chill of Old Jack Frost is beginning to allow you to leave your Keystone Light out on the back porch to be stored and chilled. Making room in the aging avocado colored Frigidaire for the deer you just shot and will keep next to the Graceland Jell-O mold with the banana slices suspended by the mini marshmallows.
Family converges from hun’rds of miles apart. Some travel from just down the same block. The whole clan will be bringing with them a years worth of rude manners and uncontrolled heathenish hell-spawn for everybody’s favorite Auntie, Mom, or Grammy to corral and stuff into a sugar coma.
By the time the whole mishpooka descends on the ancestral abode the smell of Sex is in the air.
That’s right kiddies.
Days prior to the actual Royal Rumble that is Kitchen Stadium; I get all twittered about shopping. I even begin to slobber a little bit at the thought of assembling a prep list and a game plan.
Let me tell you a little bit of a dream that I had last night.

[Fades into a dream sequence featuring some Sinatra music in the back ground to set the mood]

I saw you across a crowded room. Among all the others that were there, the lights seemed to shine down on you alone. I knew then I had to have you for my own. Willingly, you came with me to my home. From the car, I carried you and threw the door open. Looking at the shape of your body, I wanted to get at you right away. I know that’s rude so instead, I take a gander at those huge supple breasts of yours and want to pull out my baster and spill so much hot juice all down those things that it drips down your firm and toned thighs.
I can’t wait to get you into that hot bath of a sauna in MY room. When I get you there, I will remove what wraps around your body so tightly, fitting you like a glove, exposing your tender white skin. After I remove your coverings, I will ease my fingers into your cavity and remove your charms, and carry you off in my arms, to the warm water that waits. The water cascades down your neck, flowing over your soft breasts then, makes your legs glisten with wetness. Droplets of water cover your taut pale skin. My hands rub your body; you are warm and moist, so ready. I carry your still dripping body, to a laying place, so that I can put inside you what was well prepared to enter you before we even came through the door. As soon as I lay you down your legs spread open wide. You are ready now and so am I. I put a little in slowly at first, getting a feel for how much you can take in. I put in more, you take it willingly. In anticipation, faster and faster I put it in, pushing it in deeply as far as I can, until I can't put any more in, you are so tight and full.
With your legs wrapped tightly, not wanting to release any of it, I make you so hot for a very long time, until your sweet juices escape from within. Then I taste you, with my tongue at first, your skin is so soft and tender. I taste more of you with my mouth, you are so hot and moist, and you taste so good. Your juices coating my mouth, making me slobber in anticipation of eating you more, with every taste. "Oh yes!” I say to you. I must say Grace and Thank God ………………..for TURKEY!

[Fades back into a dream like reality while his wife carves him a slice of Wild Turkey on ice to help with the stress of cooking and having people ask “Need any help Chef?]

Junior leads Gramps into the kitchen with his tiny, sticky, watermelon Starburst red fingers clutching the baseball glove of a paw that is the hand of his Pop Pop.
Dad gives you a wink. He looks at your bride of 14 years and says with a mischievous grin,” Nice spread you got there! I can’t wait to put my hands on it!”
“Dad! Cut it out!”
The sly old geezer slips out through the swinging door with the twinkle of a twenty year old in his eye and says, “Aww! Come on son. Margaret knows I’m only kidding her. Don’t you dear?”
“Of course I do Stanley.”
You slide your arms around her still slender waist from behind in a rare stolen moment and sneak a nibble of her earlobe that tastes like butter and cinnamon. Then you remind her, “At least he forgot about that joke from last year with the ‘little red thing’ popping out at the dinner table.”
She says with a saucy grin,” I’ll bet you can’t wait to stuff me.”
You reply,” I’ll bring the Cool Whip.”
The men folk lay sprawled out in a semi-stupor that began in the mountain springs of Golden, Colorado. Watching football and grazing on the various nitrate snacks and fried cheese noshes, they await the proverbial ringing of the chow bell.
The women folk scurry about, clucking happily at the thought of providing the secretly guarded treasures that were committed to memory as learned at the skirt tails of Great Aunt Hortence. One of the sisters makes the overcooked grey Brussels sprouts; the other conjures up the alchemy that summons forth the marshmallow and sweet potato casserole. Your mom jostles loose from the wee hands of the little tuggers at her apron. She breaks free long enough to tell old Stanley and the boys that when the game is over, the beastie will be ready to dismantle.
Stan tugs his Dockers out of his ass crack and pushes up his WW2 Army issue Drew Carey like glasses. He heads to the dining room hutch and motions for you to follow.
“What’s up Dad?”
“It’s your turn Tommy. I’m going to let you use my dads carving set this year. “
“Dad, are you sick?”
“No son, the time has come. “Stan the Man” doesn’t have the patience or the dexterity anymore. Besides, you’re the man of the family now. I’m proud of you boy.”
The Chef swells his chest with pride as the torch has been passed and the whistle blows on the TV.
“It’s CHOW TIME!” Stan hollers.
The crowd gathers round the table and gives thanks before being seated.
You hear thanks like, “I’m thankful that I got paroled in time to be here.”
“I’m thankful she turned out to be 18”
“I’m thankful for the full set of Christmas salad bowls that say Cool Whip on them.
“I’m thankful that Thanksgiving is all about Rockin’ “
The family raises its head and gives junior a collective WHAT the?
He says,” Plymouth Rockin,’ with turkey drumsticks!” and he does his best Ringo impersonation.
Cousin Mary says, “Yup. That’s your boy there Chef. If brains were leather, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug. “
The kin are seated and with a fury of flying fingers and jowls the massive feast is picked clean in a matter of minutes.
There is a drowsy haze afloat in the room as folks peel off to claim their spot, undo their top button and drift off into peaceful bliss.

[Fade away on a room full of sleeping relatives, cleaning wives, snoring and farting husbands next to their dog of choice. We hear our narrator return to cap off the days events.]

As another year of jabs and digs at your favorite relative comes to a close,
You turn to your better half and look back on Thanksgiving 2008 and say,” I’m glad that we don’t do this shit for Christmas too!”

Support our troups.
Be Good humans.
Give thanks.

Cheers and Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Chef Steve Mendoza
New York City
2009