By Marlene Samuels

My Aunt Esther was ecstatic about hosting Thanksgiving dinner that year because it would be the first holiday she and Uncle Ziggy would be celebrating in their brand new, first-ever house. It was a huge departure from their dreary lilliputian apartment. Aunt insisted on taking responsibility for all things related to Thanksgiving dinner: creating the seating chart she’d read about in Better Homes and Gardens during her beauty-parlor appointments, choosing the menu plus deciding cocktail and dinner hours, detailed in Good Housekeeping’s Thanksgiving Special. What excited her most: the opportunity to demonstrate her unrecognized creativity. Thanksgiving would be her time to shine.

Every adult in our family was an immigrant, Holocaust survivor, and naturalized American citizen and especially patriotic. However, none was as much a student of national holidays, traditions, even specific American foods, as was my Aunt Esther. Mom’s younger sister, she was her antithesis. Besides the food, my mother regarded decorations and holiday activities as extreme money-wasters, but her sister delighted in all the hullabaloo associated with American holidays.

In order to prepare herself to host the important Thanksgiving holiday dinner, Esther sprang into action after Memorial Day weekend. In earnest, she began to collect every relevant decoration she encountered, embracing her “more of everything is better” philosophy.

Suddenly, as though a revelation had just descended upon her head, Esther seemed overwhelmed by the vastness of the responsibilities she’d assumed. Her response? She grew increasingly withdrawn and irritable. A week later, she came to borrow a platter from Mom and without warning erupted at us both. “Obviously, you two haven’t a clue that my responsibilities embody the greatest values of American life!”

Anticipating the move to a new house and hosting our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, Esther announced at my July birthday party, “I must find a turkey decoration for our Thanksgiving table’s center-piece. It’s absolutely critical!” She dreamed of replicating the holiday scene from her favorite Norman Rockwell painting, “Freedom From Want”.

We first had a good look at “it” during Rosh Hashanah dinner at their dreary apartment, right before they moved. Everyone (except Aunt Esther) thought the turkey decoration was seriously repulsive. When out of her earshot, we whispered in the hallway, on the back porch, even to one-another during dinner. She remained irrationally proud of it, so proud that before dinner when we were enjoying chopped liver and crackers in the living room, she circulated it hoping to receive words of admiration. She gloated about how clever she’d been to have bought it in the first place.

“Can you believe I actually found such a thing in a Wisconsin Dells summer flea-market?  Even better, I paid “gournischt” (nothing)!” No one dared express less-than-favorable views. Experience taught us that Aunt Esther leaned toward the hyper-sensitive side.

What about that over-sized plastic turkey had won her heart? None of us understood. “By the way, I’ll bet no one knows that this turkey’s name is Tom-Turkey?” She asked as the oversized decoration was circulating among us. “So don’t call it ‘that thing’ like you were some sort of hunyack! (barbarian).” She demanded. Nonetheless, no one could ignore its truly repellant qualities: meandering glass eyes that bounced continuously, still tacky paint in psychedelic colors evocative of Halloween and— the worst feature of all— an over-bearing, barnyard stench that emanated from its tail-feathers.   

At last, Thanksgiving was upon us and we were in the brand new house. Aunt Esther had just greeted us in her entranceway when suddenly she shouted, “Gott in himmel! (God in heaven) I almost forgot my Tom!” And she bolted into the dining-room. We watched as she plopped Tom-Turkey onto the table’s center.

“What is with these people?” I whispered to Jake. “Is it possible that they lost their sense of smell when they were in the concentration camps?” I continued to wonder where the damned thing had been but especially what might still be clinging onto its tail-feathers. Its tail may have been real feathers but they definitely weren’t from a turkey. We kids were positive they’d been attached to a Peacock’s butt.

Our entire family (except for Aunt Esther) considered Tom-Turkey far too big to be the center-piece. It was so wide that those of us seated on one side of the table couldn’t see anyone seated on the other. Also, the creepy thing was way too tall. Its head grazed the bottom of the chandelier’s lightbulbs.

We all gathered in the living-room, enjoying “Pigs in a Blanket”. “That’s the stupidest name for miniature Hebrew National Kosher hot dogs wrapped in kosher butter-free dough!” sneered Jake. “What moron came up with that one?” Mom’s death-stare halted all discussion and none-too-soon because that instant, Aunt Esther began ringing her dinner bell— a miniature Liberty Bell—purchased specifically for Thanksgiving.

We ambled to the dining-table. Our assigned seats were designated with leaf-shaped name cards in autumn colors. Everyone appreciated that this was the first holiday we’d celebrate at Aunt Esther and Uncle Ziggy’s first ever house. Other than Tom-Turkey, the table really was a work of art. My aunt had outdone herself! Color coordinated napkins and plates in autumn tones of terra cotta reds and umber golds indicated each place-setting. Paper maple leaves were scattered atop the russet-colored heavyweight paper table-covering and six vanilla-scented candles surrounded Tom-Turkey. While the adults were sitting, we kids whispered that the scented candles were Esther’s attempt to camouflage Tom-Turkey’s stench.

Candles were lit, wine poured, toasts made.

“Mazel Tov!” Shouted my father, raising his filled wine glass overhead.

“Mazel Tov and Happy Thanksgiving!” we shouted. Then, like a chorus line, everyone swerved to admire Uncle Ziggy approaching the table bearing the weight of a massive golden turkey on an equally massive platter. Stoically, he struggled toward the table bearing the massive strain when, suddenly, he stumbled forward dropping the full weight of the platter atop the table with just a tad too much force. The table shuddered under the load. Its wobbling triggered every candle surrounding creepy Tom-Turkey to topple, each in a different direction.

That’s when the real excitement of our celebration took off! Tom’s tail-feathers began to smolder, then ignited releasing a brutal stench. One nano-second later, the entire table-cover was ablaze. Those of us seated were utterly immobilized—staring in fascination at the spectacle—while flames engulfed the table before our very eyes. Likely, the intensifying stench of burning feathers knocked us back into consciousness. Without hesitation, Uncle Ziggy jumped up, lunged toward the table, grabbed the turkey-bearing platter and staggered into the living-room.

Mom was in her own choreographed performance. She sprang into action, grabbing her seat-cushion and pummeling Tom-Turkey to smother his burning feathers. Meanwhile, Dad also jumped to his feet. Hoisting two full water pitchers from the sideboard, he emptied them across the burning table-cover and around Tom-Turkey. The prevailing chaos was all we kids needed to join the craziness. For our part, we grabbed every water-filled glass and, in a show of unbridled enthusiasm, followed Dad’s example. 

“Fast work putting out that fire, Meyer!” Aunt said. “But Ziggy,” she gushed, “you saved the turkey and our Thanksgiving!”

“Gott zay dank!” (Thank God) I saved the only turkey worth saving!” He countered. “I told you that thing’s a piece of dreck (shit). Enough mit (with) your disgusting Tom-Turkey business. Let’s eat!”

Aunt Esther grabbed her plate from the table, emptied its water and collected her wine glass, napkin and silverware. “We still have the turkey and all the food thanks to Ziggy, so to the living room we’ll go! Who needs a dining room, anyway?” She added. Everyone followed her lead. Ziggy had placed the platter bearing the roast turkey atop their television cabinet. He was in the midst of his knife-sharpening performance as the adults seated themselves around the living-room sofas and kids sat on the floor. Plates filled with slices of turkey and side dishes were passed. Again, glasses were raised and again, Dad shouted, “L’Chayim!” 

Happy Thanksgiving!” shouted everyone, but Dad had another important message.   

“Never mind that we Jews are always saying, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’. How about we say ‘next year in the dining room’?”

Again, all glasses were raised, “Next year in the dining room!”

© Marlene Samuels 2025

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)