Most families aren’t “blood in blood out.” That was not the case for my family. Here was how it all started. It was Thanksgiving Day in 2001, and the weekend before my parent’s wedding. The family on my dad’s side had gathered for Thanksgiving dinner up in Seattle, Washington. A low murmur of conversation, and discourse could be heard about the upcoming wedding, jobs, and how the nieces and nephews were doing. During this time my mom was savoring the turkey, stuffing, gravy, and mashed potatoes. While enjoying the sound of family stories, laughter, and sibling arguments, my mother’s future brother-in-law Rusty reached conspicuously across the table, and stole a hunk of turkey perfectly soaked in gravy from her plate. If he was five, or even twelve, this it might be excusable behavior at Thanksgiving, but technically he was a grown man, not a toddler. The first time Rusty took her food was really like poking the dragon. My mom, with all self control, asked him through gritted teeth not to do that again. “Rusty, please stop stealing food off my plate.” Rusty silently smirked, and chewed the delectable turkey and gravy. Three or four minutes passed, and Rusty stole food again. The second time my mother was shocked and irritated, but with unbelievable self control, she simply asked him to stop. “Rusty, do not do that again.” Rusty rolled his eyes, smirked, and resumed eating. My mother returned to her conversations. Then Rusty, pressing his luck, took a third bite from her plate. My mother is many things, and patient is one of them (seeing that she’s had to deal with me for thirteen years). With an insurmountable amount of self control she told him in a menacing tone, that should have warned him to not take food off her plate again. “Rusty, STOP NOW!”

“Rusty I would stop it if I were you” Dianne his wife advised him. My mother, at her wit’s end resumed her conversations for a third time. Rusty, really thinking this was going to end well for him, reached his fork across the table, and sank its pronks into a perfectly juicy hunk of savory gravy covered turkey. I imagine this happening in slow motion: the turkey being lifted from the plate, and then as quickly as my mother realized what Rusty’s intentions were she grasped her fork, and drove it savagely into the meaty part of his hand between the thumb and index finger. The resounding thud of the fork impailing Rusty’s hand to the table, and the resulting sound that Rusty made was loud enough to cause all heads to turn toward the commotion being created at that part of the table. 

“Ahhhhh! Owwwwwww!” My uncle Rusty yelped. 

Rusty’s wife Dianne leaned over and told him, “I told you she would do it.” 

Seeing this event take place, my grandmother raised her wine glass and spoke admiringly to my mother, “I like her, she should stay.” After being stabbed, Rusty removed the fork from his hand, and scampered away to lick his wounded pride, and wounds. Shockingly he never stole food from my mom again. I wonder why? 

Now there are many life lessons to be learned from this story, but these three stuck out to me: Respect other people’s personal space, respect their wishes, and respect people’s turkey, and gravy on thanksgiving. Also as a grown man with a wife and kids, don’t make a fool of yourself. I still laugh thinking about this story. It has been told for many years, and shared with many people. It is brought up at almost every Thanksgiving by both sides of the family, and Rusty is still humiliated every time the story is told. The other main life lesson for me is: think about what I’m doing before I do it, because it might come back to humiliate me.