It is tradition in my German family that a thanksgiving dinner is not a thanksgiving dinner unless everybody with a hint of the bloodline is cramped around the same table elbow to elbow with generations of loud, jolly Waldvogels. All 34 (and a half including my 18 month old cousin, Nate) of us gather from all corners of the country to commence in a traditional holiday feast stuffing ourselves utterly to the brim with delectable provisions skillfully crafted by the team of moms and grandmas with years of experience in this sort of thing. As I sit at the far end of the table with the rest of the younger generation, my eyes roll down the line of faces and plates of food and platters and sparkling silverware, wine glasses, cloth napkins, and a single thought creeps into my heart. It is not quite a happiness or a thankfulness that we are all together and healthy and blah blah blah, but rather a lurch in my chest. A pang in my heart that pulls me from my present 2009 days and transforms me back into the 1950′s as I suddenly remember who is expected to clean up once all the plump, red-faced Bavarians have had their turkey fix. Me. The young females of the family. As the older men start pealing away from the banquet and head to the couch for their triptophan-induced comas, the mothers and grandmothers quietly remove themselves from the dining room and proceed into the living room where they share stories of their children and reminisce on their own youth. The younger males head to the basement to watch football, and all that is left are four teenage girls expected to take on 34 (and a half) dinner plates, wine glasses, forks, knives, soup spoons, hors d’oeuvre plates, soup bowls etc. Every year unsuccessfully, we plead with the elders to break the sexist trend and forgo gender role-playing and let the young men take over kitchen duty (since we, the females were also responsible for baking the dessert pies, pumpkin breads, cookies, setting the table, and helping the veteran thanksgiving expert cooks) without victory. We slave in the kitchen for nearly two hours rubbing our fingers raw, hand-washing every plate and spoon and bowl we were unable to cram into the dishwasher. The men in the mean time are oblivious in their dreamlands, or screaming at the football game. Will things ever change? The future looks grim.
