When I was a young child, my father liked to hunt small game. There were a few Thanksgivings when we had rabbit. We never saw the rabbit until it came to the table and it tasted like chicken to us. He not only enjoyed the hunting but also liked the idea of being self-sufficient. My mother was a city gal and dad understood the rules. The game was to be ready for the pot before she saw it, looking just like it came from Kroger.
One year dad decided to raise a turkey in our basement intended for Thanksgiving dinner. He was smart enough not to let us name the bird. We simply called it “turkeyboy”. My sister and I fed and watched “turkeyboy” grow to be a nice fat bird. The big day came and dad brought the bird upstairs ready for the oven. A few hours later, we all sat down for the big feast. My mother ceremoniously brought the turkey to the table for carving.
The only one who ate turkey that Thanksgiving was dad. My sister and I ages 4 and six sat there and cried.
Years later, while living on the Connecticut sea coast town of Mystic, Ron and I decided to have lobster for Thanksgiving dinner as a treat for visiting Grandma Gunther. Ron let the lobsters crawl around the kitchen floor before throwing them into the pot.
The only one who ate lobster that Thanksgiving was Ron. Our two little girls sat there and cried.
Some lessons are never learned!