Neighbor Wars

November Part 5

“You have to help me cook Natasha. It’s a family tradition. What are you going to do if you can’t cook for him and the baby?” Yaiya says as she fastens her apron. She’s right, it is a tradition for us. On Thanksgiving, every woman over the age of twenty in this family has the obligation of cooking with the family. Even if they married into or if you were born into this family you have the honor of cooking. It’s just something we do. Everyone younger watches the parade then football with the guys. Sure it can be considered an old tiny tradition that discriminates against women to make them believe all they can do is cook and do things for the men. Just shut-up if that’s you because this is something we do and have always done, and will probably always do. 

“Are sure? I am not very good at cooking.” She says. 

“Absolutely, dear. You can even make the ceremonial Pumpkin Pie.” Yep, another tradition around cooking on Thanksgiving. Every time there is a newcomer to the family, and is welcomed into the cooking cult for the first time, they get to bake a Pumpkin Pie with Yaiya. I remember seeing the photo of Mom’s turn. By the way, they always take photos. 

“Come on Natasha. You have to do it. It’s tradition. I’d love it if you did this, for me, for the family.” Alexander adds in. She shoots him a glare, but walks into the kitchen anyway. 

“I would love to.” She says, and I settle on the couch. I turn on the parade, and ignore everyone till the food is ready. Of course that means I get to sit on the couch for five hours with an excuse not to talk to anybody. I finish the parade, and watch two football games before I eat. 

I don’t like to watch football, or any sports. For a while back in middle school my parents had me playing softball, volleyball, basketball, and running track. When I got to High School I realized that I didn’t like playing sports (and it helped prove my point when I didn’t make any team I tried out for). I only watch the games because it’s fun to watch my Uncles fight over which team is better, and to hear them try to sway the kids to their side. I always sit by Dad. He tells me stories about how one team used to be couched by another couch and which teams I should cheer for. He tells me the rules and can sometimes even guess where the one person may run or throw the ball. 

Now that Alexios is on the team, both here and at home, he takes these games very seriously. He always has a ball in his hand, and nervously passes it back and forth between hands. He yells at the players, telling them they should have done this or that. 

This year I don’t talk to anyone until Aunt Rita calls us into the Dining Room. 

Our dining room is huge. When you enter our house, you can go four ways. First you can use the door at the bottom of the stairs to go down to the basement, but people rarely do that because it’s unfinished down there. Second you could go upstairs using the stairs. Third you could go to the left and enter the kitchen and living room area (most popular option). And fourth you could go to the right which is dedicated to the Dining Room. The Dining Room and the Living room are connected by a little hallway around the back of the house/under the stairs that has the door to our small backyard. 

Now to fully understand the space where our family sits for full family meals all the time I have to tell you, we don’t have a kids table. As the family has grown, so has the table. Originally it was made before I was even born, so it only had 11 places, including Demi’s toddler chair. Every time we need to expand Uncle Steve or my Dad would make another leaf and expand the table. 

Around the table is like a museum. There are old pieces of stitch work that have been framed, and hung on the walls. A whole wall dedicated to school photos of each kid. The photos go from Aunt Rita who is the oldest daughter of Yaiya, to our youngest cousins Joey who is only four. In between I can find Alexander, Dad, Alexios, Demi, Marry, and Me. Even people who marry into the family get their photo. The photos get changed often. The first photo that every kid gets hung up in their pre-school photo. Then it is first grade. Then fourth grade. Then sixth grade. Then eighth grade. Then freshman year, and every photo from there forward. Alexander’s last photo is his senior one, while Dad’s photo is his graduation photo from the police academy. Again this is another goofy tradition that I really hate because my photos are always the worst ones up there, well Alexander’s senior photo was pretty bad too.