Date: October 20, 1989.
Location: The Cooper Dining Room.
Event: The Thanksgiving Dinner (Battle Phase).
The dining table was a minefield.
Mary had arranged the seating chart with the strategic precision of a general. She separated Meemaw and Judy (opposite ends). She separated Ross and Sheldon (diagonal). She put Jack next to George Sr., which was a mistake, but she had run out of options.
"This looks... lovely, Mary," Judy said, picking up her fork as if it were contaminated. "Did you polish the silverware yourself?"
"I did," Mary beamed, sweat beading on her forehead.
"You can tell," Judy smiled thinly. "There's a smudge on the tine. But it adds character."
Meemaw stabbed a potato. "Eat your food, Judy. Before the venom in your mouth curdles the gravy."
"Mother!" Mary hissed.
I sat between Monica and Missy. Monica was staring at the food on her plate like it was a biology experiment.
"Is this... lard?" Monica whispered, poking the green beans.
"It's bacon grease," I whispered back. "It's a vegetable enhancer."
Monica looked horrified. "But the arterial clogging... the saturated fats..."
"Just eat it, Monica," I said. "It's good for your soul. Bad for your heart, but good for the soul."
***
The Brisket Incident
Then came the main course.
Meemaw stood up. She walked to the kitchen and returned with a massive platter. It was her famous brisket, smoked for 14 hours, glistening with sauce.
"Texas Brisket," Meemaw announced, slamming the platter down. "If you don't like it, you can starve."
Monica stood up immediately. She ran to the kitchen and returned with her lasagna, which was bubbling in a Pyrex dish.
"And Lasagna!" Monica squeaked. "With a homemade béchamel sauce and three types of cheese! I grated the parmesan myself!"
The table went silent. It was a standoff. Beef vs. Pasta. South vs. North.
"Well," Jack Geller boomed. "Let's try the local flavor first, eh?"
He took a slice of brisket. He chewed. He swallowed.
"Not bad!" Jack announced. "A little chewy. Reminds me of a shoe leather I once ate on a dare in college. But flavorful!"
George Sr. choked on his beer.
Meemaw's eyes narrowed into slits. "Chewy?"
"Just a tad," Judy agreed, taking a microscopic bite. "It's... rustic. Very cowboy. I suppose you have to cook it this long to kill the bacteria in this heat."
"It's smoked," Meemaw growled. "It's supposed to have a bark."
"Oh, is that what that is?" Judy wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I thought you burned it."
The air left the room.
"I like it," I said loudly, piling brisket onto my plate. "Best brisket in Texas."
"Thank you, Moonpie Number Two," Meemaw said, not taking her eyes off Judy.
"Now, the lasagna," Jack said, scooping a massive portion. "Ah! Now this is civilization! Monica, sweetheart, you've outdone yourself."
"It's a little dry," Missy mumbled.
Monica whipped her head around. "Dry? It's not dry! It has a moisture content of 45%! I measured the ricotta ratio perfectly!"
"Dry," Missy confirmed, taking a sip of milk.
Monica looked like she was going to cry. She turned to me. "Is it dry?"
I took a bite. It was actually delicious. But Missy was playing 4D chess to defend Meemaw.
"It's... thirsty," I compromised.
***
The Nerd War: Round 2
While the food war raged, the intellectual war escalated.
"So, Sheldon," Ross said, trying to regain his dignity after the living room skirmish. "I understand you're in high school. That's cute. I remember high school. I was president of the Audio-Visual club."
"I am in college," Sheldon corrected, dissecting his green beans. "I audit classes at East Texas Tech."
Ross blinked. "Oh. A local college. That's... nice. I go to Columbia. In the city."
"I am aware," Sheldon said. "I looked up the rankings. Their physics department is adequate. Their paleontology department, however, seems to be funded by people who think The Flintstones is a documentary."
Ross dropped his fork.
"Excuse me?" Ross's voice went up an octave. "We have one of the finest fossil collections on the East Coast!"
"Fossils are just rocks that used to be alive," Sheldon said dismissively. "It is a stamp collection for people who like dirt. Physics is the study of the universe."
"Paleontology is the study of life!" Ross shouted. "Without us, you wouldn't know where you came from!"
"I came from my mother," Sheldon said. "Although, looking at this dinner, I am beginning to question the evolutionary advantages of family gatherings."
"You little..." Ross stood up. "I am a published author! I have a grant!"
"And I have a napkin," Sheldon said, wiping his face. "Which has more utility than your degree."
"Okay!" Mary shouted, slamming her hand on the table. "Enough! We are saying Grace!"
***
The Prayer
We all held hands.
I held Monica's hand (clammy, trembling) and Missy's hand (sticky).
"Lord," Mary began, her voice shaking. "We thank you for this food. Even the... foreign food."
"It's Italian, Mary," Judy whispered.
"We thank you for family," Mary continued, louder. "For bringing the Gellers safely to Texas. And we ask that you grant us... patience. So much patience. Lord, just fill us with patience before someone gets stabbed with a steak knife."
"Amen," George Sr. said quickly.
"Amen," we all echoed.
***
The Aftermath
Dinner ended without a homicide, but barely.
The men (George, Jack, Meemaw—who counted as one of the guys today—and me) retreated to the living room to watch football.
The women (Mary, Judy, Monica) stayed in the kitchen to clean.
"You know, George," Jack said, loosening his belt. "I was looking at your roof. Shingles look a little curled. You got rot?"
"The roof is fine, Jack," George grunted.
"I'm just saying," Jack continued. "If you need a loan, don't be proud. I know coaching doesn't pay like Law. I just bought Monica a car. A Porsche. Well, it's my old Porsche, but still."
George crushed his beer can.
"I drive a truck," George said. "It runs fine."
"Of course, of course," Jack nodded. "Rustic."
Meemaw stood up. "I need a refill. And a cigarette."
She walked toward the kitchen.
"Hey, Ross," I called out. Ross was sitting in the corner, sulking over a textbook.
"What?" Ross snapped.
"Ignore Sheldon," I said. "He's like that with everyone. He told a NASA scientist he was 'bad at math' last year."
Ross perked up. "Really? NASA?"
"Yeah. Made the guy cry."
Ross smiled. A small, petty smile. "Well. At least I didn't cry. That's a win, right?"
"Sure, Ross," I lied. "You were very brave."
Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream came from the kitchen.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY SKILLET?!"
It was Meemaw.
We all froze.
I ran to the kitchen doorway.
Monica was standing at the sink, holding Meemaw's sacred, 50-year-old seasoned cast iron skillet. She was scrubbing it with Dawn soap and a steel wool pad.
"It was so greasy!" Monica gasped, looking terrified. "I was just getting the black gunk off!"
Meemaw looked like she was about to commit a felony. The 'black gunk' was decades of flavor seasoning.
"That isn't gunk!" Meemaw roared, grabbing a wooden spoon. "That is heritage!"
"Run, Monica," I whispered.
"This is it," George Sr. sighed from the living room, not even looking up. "The Gellers are going to die in my house."
[Quest Update: Survive Thanksgiving]
* Status: Failed.
* New Objective: Prevent Murder.
* Meemaw's Rage: 100/100.