Del Taco Thanksgiving

I sat in a red plastic booth at Del Taco this past Thursday, noshing on a veggie burrito, and wondering how it came to this.

My mother and dad sat across from me, relishing a plate of "Macho Nachos" and pecking at one of those taco salads that comes in a crisp-fried bowl filled with shredded iceberg lettuce. My husband beside me and my siblings in the booth behind us, were also munching on various tex-mex fast-food classics.

Surrounded by family as I was, I was happy, but I couldn't help but turn my mind to how things once were and how it was we ended up here.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was always imbued with the warm smell of fresh-baked rolls, the tang of sour cream potatoes, rippling laughter, basketball in the backyard or at the church, sleigh-riding in the field behind our house when there was snow, and everyone sitting down around the table for post-prandial game-playing once it became too cold and dark for outdoor play. And leftovers. Glorious leftovers!

Traditions are funny things. From what I've experienced it seems like tastes, smells, places, rituals, certain faces imprint the memory in a way that strengthens when the same elements combine on a regular (even yearly) basis.

Beautiful thing about traditions is how they play upon our senses and create a feeling of closeness and security. Trouble with traditions is that if something bad happens in the mix - a hurtful or violent act, perhaps - it has a way of ruining everything.

Thanksgiving Day eight years ago an argument broke out. It didn't escalate to physical violence, but it was heated enough that a couple very close to my family (they were at our Thanksgiving, after all) took their children, marched out of the house and drove straight down to the police department to report my father on various felony charges. For those of you who don't know my father and thus didn't laugh incredulously immediately after reading that last sentence, he is in every sense a gentle man.

I don't feel like delving into the nitty-gritties of this depressing tale right now. Long story short, my dad was cleared of every charge. But the sting remains and several relationships are still un-mended.

Thus, Thanksgiving forever changed in our family.

All our past Thanksgiving traditions, with sights and smells now become bitter, were shunted aside. New, non-traditional Thanksgiving celebrations were born. The homemade fajita bar of 2005 was a good year. Baked potato bar another year. This year my mom wanted us to rest from feast preparation and clean-up, so we hit Del Taco, the only restaurant they knew would be open Thanksgiving Day.

Thus it was I sat on a red plastic bench eating a Del Taco burrito for Thanksgiving dinner. Some of you who read this may feel sad for me. Some may feel disgusted at the very idea of tex-mex dining and wish to discard this post as they would a baby's filthied bum-wipe . . . clutched tenuously between two fingers and held at arm's length. (Some of you may not like the image I just put into your head . . . sorry.)

All I can say is, the refried beans sprinkled with shredded lettuce and barely-ripe tomato chunks wasn't the most palatable or stomach-pleasing feast I'd ever sat down to. But seeing how happy my parents were to be with us, meeting and visiting with Jane (one of the three employees on-hand) who just found out she was pregnant earlier that day, cheering the other employees on in their game of Sorry!, laughing at anecdotes, being together, and returning to a clean house with a fridge full of pie . . . it was truly an experience to be thankful for.

We finished up the night discussing gun rights, Vietnam, my sister's trip to Cuba, and the Bay of Pigs incident, topped off with some raucous rounds of Taboo. (If you've never played with my sister Kirsten, you are missing out!) It was beautiful.

I'm thankful for traditions. I'm also thankful for fresh clean memories unfettered by tradition. Traditions or no, this year I am thankful for quality time spent loving the people closest to me.

I've learned that showing love is important, even if it means eating some . . . atypical . . . foods along the way.