I woke up on Thanksgiving morning to the sound of my dad and uncle cleaning the grill. We decided to visit my dad’s family in Australia that year. The sun was already high over head and beating its heavy rays down onto me through the window. I could smell a pumpkin pie baking.
I walked into the kitchen and was hit by a warm, uncomfortable waft. Baking is much cozier on a cool fall or snowy winter day. Not at the break of summer.
My mom was red in the face and sweating, even with the air turned up. It was so hot. She laughed and said, “Next time, I’m making a fruit salad for dessert.”
My dad and uncle decided to use the smoker instead of the grill, and were smoking half of a huge turkey. Everyone cooked all morning, except for me. I read a book on the lawn.
When it was time to eat, my family packed everything into picnic baskets and we decided to eat at the beach.
It was fun, but I think I like cold Thanksgiving better.