When my big brother John and I were enjoying a delicious slice of pumpkin pie with our cousins, “Tom Turkey” showed up at Grandma Price’s breakfast table to begin the day with a little fun and excitement.

The extended family had descended upon the familiar two-story white colonial on Palmer Avenue in Kenmore, New York, for our annual Thanksgiving pilgrimage with the paternal grandparents.

As the Price cousins filtered into the kitchen for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning, the family matriarch was whistling as she busied herself around the stove while making preparations for the early morning meal.

After turning on the burners under the heavy steel griddle, the middle-aged woman stopped stirring the thick batter in a large glass bowl to get the vanilla from the cupboard overhead.

“Are we having turkey for breakfast,” questioned Carmen as she kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “I could smell the aroma all the way upstairs in our bedroom.”

The redhead’s youngest sibling inserted his finger in the bowl and scooped out some of the creamy batter before putting the dripping glob into his mouth.

“Rhett Butler Price,” exclaimed the resolute woman as she smacked her oldest grandson square on the backside. “Why… I ought to give you a good swift kick in the pants for that.”

“Ouch,” declared the 10-year-old as he hurried across the room to sit at the opposite end of the table. “I don’t think kicking my butt will be necessary after that good swat on the my heinie.”

“I think that was met for all of us,” mocked Mikey rubbing his hindquarters while contorting his face with a tongue protrusion. “I heard that wallop all the way from over here; and I think I felt it too.”

The lanky lad grabbed ahold of his cousin, who was one year his junior, and put him in a headlock before he had the opportunity to sit down at the backside of the table.

“All right… that will be enough,” chided the freckled red-haired woman as she handed the plates and drinking glasses to her oldest granddaughter. “Make yourselves useful and set the table so you hooligans can eat breakfast.”

“To answer your question Carmen,” asserted the 59-year-old with a wave of the spatula in her hand. “You’re having flapjacks and pumpkin pie with whipped cream for breakfast.”

“Pumpkin pie,” I noted with bug eyes looking at the three cousins on the opposite side of the table. “I’ve never had dessert for breakfast in my whole entire life.”

As soon as Grandma placed two plates with giant stacks of flapjacks on the table, the cousins quickly snatched up the fluffy round cakes and smothered them with maple syrup before she had the opportunity to get the sausage links.

Once the youngsters polished off the last of the scrumptious flapjacks sprinkled with animated conversation, Carmen and Silver hurried into the pantry and each came out with one of Grandma’s delicious homemade pumpkin pies with cinnamon sprinkled on top.

While Grandma began to clean up the clutter from breakfast around the stove, there was a noisy disturbance in the stairwell leading to the basement.

“What in tarnation is going on,” uttered the middle-aged woman as she placed the dirty breakfast dishes in the sink prior to walking toward the entrance. “Who is making all that ruckus down there?”

Before she reached the other side of the kitchen cabinets, the door swung wide open and out popped a fine feathered friend squawking while flapping its wings.

“Looky there,” I stated while dropping my jaw looking at cousin Mikey, who was sitting next to me gobbling up his dessert. “Tom Turkey has come to join us for our Thanksgiving Day feast.”

“You definitely came to the wrong house,” conveyed Rhett, who looked over at the domesticated animal as he pushed back his chair. “Carmen… quick… open up the oven so we can stuff him inside.”

When the oldest cousin leapt from her chair and opened the oven door, Tom Turkey looked over and saw one of his more unfortunate brothers inside cooking up to a golden brown.

The gobbler put his feathers to his beaked face and red wattles before uttering out a high-pitched shriek as he ran to the other side of the kitchen.

The long-haired stripling and his 14-year-old sister jumped to their feet and cornered the feathered beast by extending their arms while dancing back and forth on nimble feet.

“Nowhere to go fat boy,” divulged Silver as she poked at the bird’s middle with her index finger. “First were gonna gut you; then were gonna cram you full of Grandma’s special stuffing.”

All the cousins began to laugh hysterically along with Grandma as the turkey head was removed to reveal the true identity of the impersonator. It was Uncle Carl in disguise.

“You had us all fooled,” announced this minister’s second born after I crawled under the table and pulled at my uncle’s shirt sleeve to get his attention. “I thought you were Tom Turkey coming to join in our cel-e-bra-tion.”

“I am Tom Turkey,” responded the 22-year-old before he picked up this young shaver while lifting my shirt to give me a zerbert. “You look good enough to eat; so I think I’m gonna have to gobble you up.”

“Are you gonna gut me like a deer again,” I queried before wrapping my little arms around the jovial young man’s neck and squeezing tightly. “Cause you scared me half to death.”

“Oh,” declared the suave young man as he made me laugh out loud with this unique tickling technique. “You remember the time when you were hiding under my bed like a little scamp?”

After the blond-haired young man kicked Rhett to the back wall of seating, he sat down at the end of the table placing this first grader on his lap to enjoy some delicious pie and good conversation before it was time to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton. If you’re interested in reading the extended version of this story in his novel titled, “Little Church at the Top of the Hill,” just type the title into the Facebook search engine and scroll down to Chapter 30, A Gobbler’s Thanksgiving.