I could wax poetic about how thankful I was this Thanksgiving for things like my health, and for the ability to enjoy my family. Or, I could tell you about the hilarity that ensued in preparing the meal. Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the entire process of preparing said meal, if I wasn’t exponentially healthier than I was last year. Last year, I was still so sick that, the following day, despite pretending I was totally cool with washing every dish, and with chatting and laughing, I had to sleep all day long. Literally. For two days. My poor recovering brain just couldn’t handle it.
Anyway, this year, I prepared two pies, two cheesecakes (more on that, shortly), Strop Koekjes, and the potatoes. I was a girl on fire – in my nether regions. I would’ve made the cranberries too; but, ironically, I had to stop, mid-prep, for a surprise trip to urgent care for yet another UTI. Cranberries clearly don’t prevent UTIs, folks.
As I believe I’ve mentioned, I have yet another mysterious chronic condition in which my tropical island (a girl I knew once called her vagina this, and I like it), has taken a liking to developing UTIs, basically all the time. No sooner do I wrap up the antibiotics for one, but another develops. I even got to enjoy a ninety-day course of antibiotics, but lo and behold, the minute I threw out the empty bottle, a fun new visitor bivouacked on my beach. My island likes visitors. It must be the tropical climate.
Yes, I know how to wipe. Yes, I know how to wash. Yes, I know all the S-E-X rules. I follow them religiously. It’s like a decontamination shower every time I use the bathroom, or heaven forbid, any “foreign visitors” travel to my island. It’s gotten ridiculous. There’s surgical prep soap in my shower, for cripe’s sake!
The doctor is baffled. We’ve tried less washing. More washing. This antibiotic. That antibiotic. This test. That test. This uncomfortable procedure. That one. And everything in between. Did you know that my bladder itself can hold a massive amount of urine? It’s remarkable, actually. I found this out when they put electrodes in there and filled my bladder with saline and made me hold it as long as possible, before emptying it, in front of a nurse and a med tech, in a toilet chair. It was super fun. I recommend this procedure to anyone who has a free morning and no pride or sense of dignity.
So, that’s what interrupted my cranberry prep, and why I didn’t make them. Collin made them. Collin! My child. My itty-bitty, infant, made part of our Thanksgiving dinner, with a food processor. I am as shocked as anyone. I am shocked both because he is old enough to participate in this part of the ritual preparations of a traditional meal, and because he was willing to tear himself away from the Legend of Zelda long enough to press the pulse button on the Cuisinart. Not to fear, he’s apparently not old enough to wash the Cuisinart. He left that part to the real grown-ups.
More hilarity ensued that night, when my hypochondriac, anxiety-prone son came out of his room to report that his stomach felt “weird.” I did what I like to call, “gently ignored him.” Because of his sensory issues, he has a difficult time determining what, in his body, is a big deal, versus what is nothing. And, because of his genuine anxiety, he gets nervous over the slightest issue. This means that he complains about everything.
We’ve started calling him Cameron. He doesn’t like it. Nor does he get it, since he’s never seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but it suits him.
In other words, he’s always feeling “weird.” He’s always showing me something that he thinks looks off, or complaining about something distressing. I’ve had him show me his chest rising and falling and ask me, “why does it look like that?” The response, “because you are breathing,” only causes more questions, such as, “but, if I do this, it does that. Why?” So, I’ve learned that the best approach is to assume he’s fine, and just hope for the best unless my mommy radar goes “ping.”
It didn’t; so, I told him if he felt sick, to go to the bathroom. Of course, he sat in front of the toilet for ten minutes, looking like a pitiful puppy that’s been locked in the laundry room after peeing on the rug. I patted his little head when I walked by to grab something out of the bedroom, but he still looked fine. After all, we’d heretofore (always impressive when you can use that word, right?) won the vomit lottery. My child may have autism, and he may have ADHD, and he may be endlessly frustrating and perfect, but he has only had the stomach flu ONE TIME!
Surely, you know where this is going.
He sleeps in a loft bed.
After ten minutes in the bathroom, he went back to bed.
To his loft bed.
He didn’t make it to the bathroom.
I’ve lived in fear of this day since we put that loft bed into his room.
He had a bucket in his bed with him, just in case, because he’d had a cough all week. He’d been gagging, occasionally. That bucket should be bronzed as a lifesaver. The mayor should give it a commendation.
Spaghetti with red sauce and milk. Thank god for that bucket.
After the puke, he was fine. Totally fine. Like kids are. But, he was fine in a way that I cannot describe. He was fine like, “what did he eat?”
Oh my God, was it the milk? The milk that I just used in the cheesecake? See! Veganism is the best! At least I won’t vomit! But, the guests! Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m finally healthy and strong enough to be Suzy Homemaker and I am going to poison everyone. The fucking thing was perfect too! It didn’t even crack when it cooled.
I scrambled to the recycle bin to check the expiration date, which was the middle of December. My not-so-helpful vomit-breath son could only say, “I guess that I think it tasted a little weird; but, that was only towards the end of dinner, after it sat out for a while.” I wanted to shake him; but, I thought would be a little heartless, after ignoring him. But still, it either tasted weird, or it didn’t. Gah!
Since I think milk tastes, and smells like Satan’s asshole, I’m no help in determining its freshness, especially from the dregs of an empty carton, pulled from the recycle bin. I’ve had a strong aversion to milk since I was a kid, even before being vegan. My mom used to try to trick me into drinking it, you know, because it’s good for you, by putting it in a covered cup, and mixing it with Vernor's. Blech! It’s one of the things she did that I think was from a good place, but it’s gross. Milk mixed with Ginger Ale? I could gag just thinking about it.
Anyway, do I have to make an entirely new cheesecake because of the vomiting? Why do children vomit at the worst times? Or, is there a good time for them to vomit?
The only way to know was to potentially poison my guests, or to make someone eat some before they did. Bryon took one for the team; but, I made another one, anyway, while he was on vomit watch. Since he figured he was in for a penny, in for a pound, he kept right on eating it, regularly, until “real” serve-up time. He didn’t barf, so we ended up with two black cherry, cookie crumb and fudge swirl cheesecakes.
I guess that’s not so bad of an outcome. The mystery of what made my child vomit may never be solved, but it wasn’t the cheesecake. I choose to blame an early visit from Krampus. He’d better shape up! Since he only vomited once, I chose not to believe that he was going to be passing the stomach flu to me, Bryon, our neighbors, their mother-in-law, two other children, and an infant.
But, the best part of our Thanksgiving preparations was probably karma’s punishment (or warning, depending on how you want to see it) for Bryon, when he tried to prep the barbecue for smoking the turkeys. I flatly refuse to touch or have anything to do with meat, in our house, even on holidays. I won’t even touch the dishes. It makes my stomach turn. Because Bryon sees days like Thanksgiving as, essentially, a meat party, he’s happy to tolerate my idiosyncrasy in this matter.
However, when he went to prepare the barbecue, the universe of the animals had prepared a revolt for him, in the shape of a rat. We prepare so little meat in our house, especially on the barbecue, these days, that a rat had taken up residence in the base of the barbecue, and made a nice little nest in the smoker. Seeing this nest, I learned two things: a rat can make a nest out of just about anything (ash!?), and that they poop a lot, and don’t mind sleeping in it (ew).
He was quite displeased at being disrupted by Bryon opening the barbecue, and felt a little concerned at the thought of it being lit on fire. Mr. Rat scurried about, back and forth between the smoker and the barbecue, rushing around, trying to figure out a way to not be evicted, while Bryon tried to figure out a way to evict him, without lighting the barbecue, and cooking him out. It was quite a sight to see, and hear, as Mr. Rat scampered quite loudly. Plus, he had me, ever-so-gently (of course) insisting that Mr. Rat be gently coaxed from his home.
Poor Bryon has to put up with such a crazy lady for a wife. He asks for so little. Turkey on Thanksgiving! Is that too much to ask? He gets rat in the barbecue, and a wife who insists that the rat takes precedence over the dead meat. That man is a saint.
I was concocting alternate turkey preparation plans, in my head, as I was not about to let him hurt the rat, despite it being disgusting, if it came to a showdown. And, Bryon was quite perplexed at how to remove a rat, and his nest, without harming him, and without infecting our guests with the hanta virus or the bubonic plague.
It turned out that banging on the barbecue for a while, and leaving the lid wide open for several hours encouraged Mr. Rat to relocate. He packed his little rat bags, and found a new residence pretty quickly. I’m hoping he moved to a new neighborhood entirely, and didn’t settle close-by. Bryon spent hours scrubbing the barbecue and disinfecting it, as to not kill anyone with plague.
The meal turned out quite lovely and we had a full turkey leftover. I told you that Bryon gets a little excited when we actually cook meat. No one vomited from cheesecake, or anything else. And, no one contracted the hanta virus, or the plague. There were no pestilence visitors. My antibiotic worked…so far. I was able to cook, and clean up. And, the next day, I was strong enough to help put up Christmas decorations all day, after a quick run, and some weight lifting.
Lots to be thankful for.