Fuzzy’s Parents are coming over to our home for Thanksgiving dinner on Friday. Our second Thanksgiving as we’re heading to Frank’s house after I watch hours upon hours of parade Thursday morning. This meant we spent five hours in the local Kroger last night shopping. Krogering. Me, with my printed out list for cheesecake and Fuzzy going off his brain power. The same brain that’s been trying to memorize Messiaen’s La Transfiguration de Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ.
It was fine, with the screaming children and Moms with bad hair. Until, we got to the cranberry sauce. This is when my homosexual life partner asked if I preferred the jellied can kind or the canned jelly kind.
Steve turned his head sideways.
“Um…you get what your parents prefer.” I said hoping that would be good enough. “Where you raised with the kind that you have to dislodge from the can?”
“What do you want?” Fuzz pressed for an answer. “We’ll get what you want.”
“Well, I was raised on the sauce that looks like the can it came in. Like The Franklin expedition celebrates a holiday. I now prefer Fresh Cranberry Compote…. ginger… Orange zest…” The look in my partners eyes trying to make cranberry compote in his head, made me realize that canned sauce may save this man from a total mental breakdown.
“Or…yummy canned sauce!” I shouted with glee.
*Note to Steve*
Learn how to make cranberry compote for next year.