Having a father that travelled often made for some great guilt-lavished Christmases, but growing up fat, there was no better holiday than Thanksgiving.

I was somewhere in the 8-11 year-old range, my memory being a bit foggy in that area. My mother awoke at 5 am to spend the day preparing Thanksgiving dinner, as suburban middle class mothers did in the early 70's. The table was set with a selection of foods that can only be described as excessive. Turkey, of course, and green beans, Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, home-made stuffing with random turkey innards cooked inside the turkey's carcass, canned cranberry sauce that kept its shape outside the can, hot rolls, brown gravy made from grease and powdered gravy mix, canned peas and pearl onions, mushy canned carrots, apple sauce for the kids, a veggie tray of Sweet Midget pickles and olives and celery and raw carrots, canned corn, several tubs of butter and Imperial Margarine, coffee, wine, RC Cola, and for me, chocolate milk.

Before sitting down to eat, my two-years-older-than-me brother and I took a turkey leg outside to get a photo of me acting like I was eating it. I deny actually taking a few bites, regardless of the tooth-marked evidence. When we returned, everyone was ready to eat. My father was at one end, as the head of the household, and I, for no reason I can remember, was at the other end. Maybe the youngest male got the honor. Or maybe I was just a spoiled brat.

To be sure the visualization is complete, my two-years-older-than-me brother sat to my right and my mother sat to my left. The spread was before us. Nobody had eaten yet, as there were thanks to be said first. Just as the serving spoons and forks were lifted, and my father began to carve the glorious slow-cooked turkey, I lifted my quart-sized glass of chocolate milk and took a huge gulp into my mouth to the point of cheek-expansion. I looked at my brother, who had no choice, being two-years-older-than-me, than to hold his hand over his mouth and snicker.

This is when time slowed. The milk-induced pressure was released in a burst of involuntary laughter. A tannish mist spread across the table like, well, in my memory, like you would imagine a five gallon balloon filled with chocolate milk exploding three feet above the table. Not one food item, not one plate, not one glass, was spared. There was no possible way for one mouthful of liquid to so thoroughly coat an entire table of food, and yet, there it was. Everyone froze. Slowly, slowly, each of us turned to look at my mother. I was no longer laughing. With a look that would make a Secret Service agent cringe, she said, "We are going to eat this." Another silent pause. My father began to carve. We were persuaded. And we ate.