Thanksgiving '92

     Page Eighteen.
     Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
     September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
     "I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
     "Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
     "WHAT?"
     "Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
     "Yeah, I know."
     "Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going  to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
     "Of course, I'll make it."
     "Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
     Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
     The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
     The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
     "Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
     "Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
     "I'm hungry."
     "Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
     "Yeah."
     So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.