- Jun 27, 2003
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A Thanksgiving Easter Egg
It was Thanksgiving Day and we were at my grandmother's house, as usual. Carloads of relatives jammed into three floors and overflowed to the basketball court in the driveway and the woods out back.
Everyone would stay till late at night. I was glad about that because Thanksgiving was practically the only day I got to play with my cousin John. We saw eye to eye about many things. Sports were in, girls were out.
At 9 a.m. the house was already in an uproar. Ours was a "traditional" family, which meant that most of the women were working like crazy cooking, setting the table, calling out instructions, my grandmother in charge. Meanwhile, most of the men were outside playing basketball. John and I were in the TV room with a bunch of siblings and cousins, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.
We were interrupted when our oldest cousin, Marguerite, a sixth-grader, red-haired, tall and skinny as a strand of spaghetti, appeared in the doorway. "Look what I found," she said.
In her hands was an enormous chocolate Easter egg, the size of a softball, wrapped in tinfoil. Some of the little kids got up for a closer look. John and I pretended not to care. Where had she got the egg, anyway? Was it left over from Easter?
"Can we eat it?" four-year-old cousin Ellen asked. Her eyes were wide, as if she'd never seen a chocolate egg before.
I knew the answer before it came out of Marguerite's mouth. "No!" And with that she spun on her heels and was gone.
"Hey, John," I whispered. "Let's find the egg. You can have half and I'll have the other, and we won't give Miss Spaghetti any."
"Good idea," John whispered back.
It took us 15 minutes to locate the egg--on a chair in one of the bedrooms on the third floor. "Time to eat," John said. "Peel off the foil."
I started to, but his hand on my arm stopped me. Someone was coming down the attic stairs. "Quick! Let's get outta here!"
An instant later, egg in hand, John and I were in the living room, wondering what to do next. Adults rushed by, busy as ever. So busy that they wouldn't notice a couple of boys chowing down chocolate? Doubtful.
John had the same thought. "Better not eat the egg in here," he said. "How about the woods?"
To get to the woods, you had to go through the back door. And to get to the back door, you had to go through the one room where you'd expect to find adults on Thanksgiving--the kitchen. Without thinking, we rushed in, only to find--no one! The place was deserted. Empty.
The one thing we did see was food--all of it waiting to be cooked. It was still early.
We ran for the door, when who did we hear coming up the back steps? Marguerite, along with my mother and grandmother, returning to the kitchen. I was holding the egg.
"Here, John! Hide this!" I threw it at him. He caught it right next to the stove--on top of which, waiting to be stuffed, was an uncooked turkey the size of an ostrich. John looked frantically around, sucked in his breath, and shoved the egg inside the turkey.
Just in time. The door opened: in they came--Mom, Grandma, Marguerite; out we went.
"Hey, boys! How about some basketball?" my Uncle Dan called from the driveway as we were trying to figure out what to do next. It was a fateful distraction. Over the next five hours we had lots of fun playing basketball with the men, hide-and-seek with the other kids, climbing trees in the woods. We completely forgot about the egg. Then we heard, "Dinner!"
You know how hungry you get on Thanksgiving? I ran for the house as fast as I could, washed my hands and went into the dining room. Our family was so large that two tables were always set--a big one and a small one for the little squirts.
I took a seat at the big table, slavering I was so hungry. John sat across from me. All at once the kitchen door opened, and in came the adults with the food. Before I knew it, I had a big plate of Thanksgiving dinner in front of me: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, peas, cranberry sauce. Yummy! We said grace and started to eat.
Suddenly, Uncle Dan declared in a loud voice, "Something's wrong."
"What's wrong?" my grandmother asked, looking worried.
"This stuffing tastes funny," Uncle Dan replied.
"What does it taste like?"
"Just a minute," he said, putting a forkful in his mouth. He chewed for a long time, then swallowed. "It tastes like--chocolate."
As he said the word, my fork dropped onto my plate and I threw my hands over my face. I didn't want anyone to see me. But I also didn't want to see anyone else, because I knew if I looked across the table at John, I'd start to laugh. So I kept my hands up, hiding my eyes.
Two things happened at once. When my grandmother heard the word chocolate, she jumped up and ran around the table, scooping stuffing off everyone's plate. She didn't want them eating anything that tasted funny. At the same time, when my cousin Marguerite heard the word, she left the table. Where was she going? You guessed it: to the third floor.
Seconds later, she was back announcing: "Someone stole my chocolate Easter egg, and I think I know who did it."
I slowly lowered my hands; she was staring right at me. Seated next to her was my father. I'd never seen him look more angry. His face, all mushed together, resembled a school art project gone wrong. Uh, oh. I knew I was in for it now. So did my heart, which had mysteriously come loose and begun to travel up into my throat.
Only this time, before my heart had a chance to pick up speed, my father's scowl turned into a smile, and all the adults started laughing. They laughed long and hard. John and I just sat there.
Then my father reached into his lap and pulled out the enormous chocolate Easter egg, still wrapped in tinfoil.
They'd tricked us. The egg hadn't cooked and melted inside the turkey. They'd found it beforehand and taken it out.
"Joke's on you, boys."
My father handed Marguerite the egg. She looked as surprised as John and I did."
"You get something, too," my father said to us, as my grandmother went around putting spoonfuls of stuffing back on everyone's plate. "After dinner, you two boys get to wash the dishes. How's that?"
Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.
John and I looked at each other and started laughing, too. After all, it could've been worse.
Author Unknown
Submitted by Richard
It was Thanksgiving Day and we were at my grandmother's house, as usual. Carloads of relatives jammed into three floors and overflowed to the basketball court in the driveway and the woods out back.
Everyone would stay till late at night. I was glad about that because Thanksgiving was practically the only day I got to play with my cousin John. We saw eye to eye about many things. Sports were in, girls were out.
At 9 a.m. the house was already in an uproar. Ours was a "traditional" family, which meant that most of the women were working like crazy cooking, setting the table, calling out instructions, my grandmother in charge. Meanwhile, most of the men were outside playing basketball. John and I were in the TV room with a bunch of siblings and cousins, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.
We were interrupted when our oldest cousin, Marguerite, a sixth-grader, red-haired, tall and skinny as a strand of spaghetti, appeared in the doorway. "Look what I found," she said.
In her hands was an enormous chocolate Easter egg, the size of a softball, wrapped in tinfoil. Some of the little kids got up for a closer look. John and I pretended not to care. Where had she got the egg, anyway? Was it left over from Easter?
"Can we eat it?" four-year-old cousin Ellen asked. Her eyes were wide, as if she'd never seen a chocolate egg before.
I knew the answer before it came out of Marguerite's mouth. "No!" And with that she spun on her heels and was gone.
"Hey, John," I whispered. "Let's find the egg. You can have half and I'll have the other, and we won't give Miss Spaghetti any."
"Good idea," John whispered back.
It took us 15 minutes to locate the egg--on a chair in one of the bedrooms on the third floor. "Time to eat," John said. "Peel off the foil."
I started to, but his hand on my arm stopped me. Someone was coming down the attic stairs. "Quick! Let's get outta here!"
An instant later, egg in hand, John and I were in the living room, wondering what to do next. Adults rushed by, busy as ever. So busy that they wouldn't notice a couple of boys chowing down chocolate? Doubtful.
John had the same thought. "Better not eat the egg in here," he said. "How about the woods?"
To get to the woods, you had to go through the back door. And to get to the back door, you had to go through the one room where you'd expect to find adults on Thanksgiving--the kitchen. Without thinking, we rushed in, only to find--no one! The place was deserted. Empty.
The one thing we did see was food--all of it waiting to be cooked. It was still early.
We ran for the door, when who did we hear coming up the back steps? Marguerite, along with my mother and grandmother, returning to the kitchen. I was holding the egg.
"Here, John! Hide this!" I threw it at him. He caught it right next to the stove--on top of which, waiting to be stuffed, was an uncooked turkey the size of an ostrich. John looked frantically around, sucked in his breath, and shoved the egg inside the turkey.
Just in time. The door opened: in they came--Mom, Grandma, Marguerite; out we went.
"Hey, boys! How about some basketball?" my Uncle Dan called from the driveway as we were trying to figure out what to do next. It was a fateful distraction. Over the next five hours we had lots of fun playing basketball with the men, hide-and-seek with the other kids, climbing trees in the woods. We completely forgot about the egg. Then we heard, "Dinner!"
You know how hungry you get on Thanksgiving? I ran for the house as fast as I could, washed my hands and went into the dining room. Our family was so large that two tables were always set--a big one and a small one for the little squirts.
I took a seat at the big table, slavering I was so hungry. John sat across from me. All at once the kitchen door opened, and in came the adults with the food. Before I knew it, I had a big plate of Thanksgiving dinner in front of me: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, peas, cranberry sauce. Yummy! We said grace and started to eat.
Suddenly, Uncle Dan declared in a loud voice, "Something's wrong."
"What's wrong?" my grandmother asked, looking worried.
"This stuffing tastes funny," Uncle Dan replied.
"What does it taste like?"
"Just a minute," he said, putting a forkful in his mouth. He chewed for a long time, then swallowed. "It tastes like--chocolate."
As he said the word, my fork dropped onto my plate and I threw my hands over my face. I didn't want anyone to see me. But I also didn't want to see anyone else, because I knew if I looked across the table at John, I'd start to laugh. So I kept my hands up, hiding my eyes.
Two things happened at once. When my grandmother heard the word chocolate, she jumped up and ran around the table, scooping stuffing off everyone's plate. She didn't want them eating anything that tasted funny. At the same time, when my cousin Marguerite heard the word, she left the table. Where was she going? You guessed it: to the third floor.
Seconds later, she was back announcing: "Someone stole my chocolate Easter egg, and I think I know who did it."
I slowly lowered my hands; she was staring right at me. Seated next to her was my father. I'd never seen him look more angry. His face, all mushed together, resembled a school art project gone wrong. Uh, oh. I knew I was in for it now. So did my heart, which had mysteriously come loose and begun to travel up into my throat.
Only this time, before my heart had a chance to pick up speed, my father's scowl turned into a smile, and all the adults started laughing. They laughed long and hard. John and I just sat there.
Then my father reached into his lap and pulled out the enormous chocolate Easter egg, still wrapped in tinfoil.
They'd tricked us. The egg hadn't cooked and melted inside the turkey. They'd found it beforehand and taken it out.
"Joke's on you, boys."
My father handed Marguerite the egg. She looked as surprised as John and I did."
"You get something, too," my father said to us, as my grandmother went around putting spoonfuls of stuffing back on everyone's plate. "After dinner, you two boys get to wash the dishes. How's that?"
Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.
John and I looked at each other and started laughing, too. After all, it could've been worse.
Author Unknown
Submitted by Richard
