By Keith Capstick
Twenty-one-year-old Thomas Rye went home for Thanksgiving this past weekend to a house filled with repetitive, nauseating conversation, only matched by the sickening smell of his mother’s famous squash soup.
Rye, like many other students, was looking forward to going home for the weekend to “sit around and not give a fuck what I smell like.” But he was met with a whirlwind of family bonding and pre-Thanksgiving chores.
Amongst the conversations about school, Rye’s childhood and how tall he’s magically become, it is estimated that 85 per cent of his family members who boasted about the quality of his mom’s pumpkin pie actually spit out their first bite into a napkin and promptly fed the rest to the dog.
“This tastes nothing like the stuff you buy from Costco. I can’t explain it, it’s just better,” said Rye’s uncle, who is a liar.
What baffled Rye most were the plates. He couldn’t seem to understand why this holiday made everyone feel like they could eat so barbarically.
Mountains of food were stacked high atop the plates at the table, 20 miserable messes of cranberry sauce, gravy and starches.
“Cranberry sauce and potatoes don’t mix. I don’t know if I can be a part of this family anymore,” said Rye.
After dinner, Rye’s family gathered in the living room for shallow conversation and collectively tried to hide how much they were actually drinking.
Their shifty eyes bounced between their collection of empty beer bottles and sad pools of melted ice cream. They looked around the room just enough to seem like they actually gave a fuck about the conversation.
“So, how’s school? Have you met any nice new friends? Are you finding it difficult? I bet all the parties are a lot of fun,” said his aunt.
These conversations were an important part of Thanksgiving for Rye and they helped to create lasting memories that he believed helped him get through the first half of the fall semester.
“So, how’s school? Have you met any nice new friends? Are you finding it difficult? I bet all the parties are a lot of fun,” said his other aunt.
As Rye sat in his old family armchair listening to his uncle babble on about how much golf he’s going to play in Florida this winter, his eyes kept opening and closing as his body was taken over by the “turkey-itis.”
Visions of the overly messy and visually unappealing mounds of potatoes and stuffing and gravy distracted Rye from the not-so-stimulating conversations around the room. He watched a small white drip of vanilla ice cream fall from his second aunt’s lip to the floor.
“I just don’t know what to do. Between the half-cooked carrots and the way the whipped cream atop the pumpkin pie wilts like my spirit, I’d rather be doing homework,” said Rye.