Bet You Wish This Had Happened to You

Bet you wish this had happened to you …

But first, I should explain that this is the third in a flurry of Just TypiKel posts. Insomnia hit the other night and I realized I really could benefit from writing about something other than my current neverending  project. I miss you, dear readers. Surely, a brief vacation from the project wouldn’t be harmful. I think we all could do with a laugh, don’t you?

It’s our Canadian Thanksgiving on Monday, what a perfect time to crank open the Just TypiKel vault and overhaul some of the old Thanksgiving classics. Warning: Yesterday’s post, on the top five tips for hosting Thanksgiving  dinner whilst away was entirely different than today’s topic. Today’s is not for the squeamish. Consider yourselves warned.

Anyone Here a Germaphobe?

We’ve got more than our fair share of germaphobes in our extended family. I can easily name at least five. Four would be present during this memorable Thanksgiving dinner episode.

The action takes place back in the days when Francine, my mother, a woman admittedly not fond of “all things kitchen,” still cooked the Thanksgiving dinner. A full bird with at least two side dishes, stuffing and gravy, not the unfortunate already stuffed roast turkey breast that doesn’t require any basting and should only be cooked for half the time she believes it should be.

This is my first Thanksgiving as a new bride. It’s important to note that my mother-in-law is a wonderful cook. She’s of the Martha Stewart ilk, right down to hand stitching her handmade linen napkins. I needn’t worry about John though. He’s still recovering from asking for garlic when making chili. Francine handed him a small sealed jar containing a black, wizened, unidentifiable lump. His expectations for tonight’s dinner are appropriate.

“No worries, Kel. There’s always your sister’s apple pie …”

Bet You Wish This Had Happened To You

You know that feeling that something is wrong the second you arrive? Yup. That’s what John and I feel the second we walk into my parents’ house. It’s too quiet. We walk upstairs and find the Queen Germaphobe, my aunt, and her husband alone in the living room. The kitchen door is shut, which is decidedly odd.

“I asked if I could help, Kelly, but your father said everything was under control,” Auntie smiled. She notices me staring at the Comet cleansing powder tin by her feet and giggles.

“Oh, it’s so cold today, I knew I’d need a bath after walking here. Of course, I scrubbed out the tub afterwards.” Bless her for not revealing the need to scrub it beforehand.

“You stay and chat, John. I’ll just pop into the kitchen and rustle us up some drinks,” I slip away before he can offer.

“Shut the door!” My harried and flushed mother hisses as soon as she sees me.

I’ve walked onto a movie set. Our hostess is squatting, like a running back, holding out a towel. My father is nearby, plunging at the ceiling with the garden corn broom.

“We’ve got a slight infestation problem, Kel,” he manages, mid stab.

“I told you and your father. I’ve been seeing moths in here for weeks,” my mother fumes, as something drops with a thump onto the towel.

Guilt washes over me in great lumps, not unlike the gravy bubbling on the stove. I’d dismissed them as  “butterflies.”

These aren’t Those

But one head tilt back and I know we aren’t dealing with monarchs. The white ceiling is dotted with dozens of sluggish beige grubs. Ranging in size from a 1/4 to 1/2 an inch, they appear to be in varying stages of awareness. Some cling moribund, while others inch their way to adventure.

“The stove’s been on all day. We think they must have been concealed and conceived in the dogfood and the warmth made them hatch. You can see them creeping up the wall from the cupboard.”

UGH. Creepy is right. There’s a sudden audible plop. I steel myself to eyeball the gravy and gasp as I spy at least two doing the equivalent of a squirmy freestyle …

“Dad and I have this under control. Fix yourself some drinks and for God’s sake don’t let your sister and the kids in. Or my sister.” She fixes me with that fierce look reserved for when I was three and very naughty.

I try, but of course my sister, her husband and mine soon know the horrid truth.

To this day, I marvel that Auntie never asked why the rest of us were loading up on the brussels sprouts, mashed potatoes and sweet potato pie …

And the “special visitors?” I believe they were pantry moths. You can read about them here. Or not.

Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow Canadians. You might want to look up before you tuck into your turkey …

Cheers.