Welcome back folks. I know you’re all super excited to be here after your relaxing Thanksgiving break. Luckily, we have finals waiting—such a comforting thought. But this article isn’t about the future. This article isn’t even about the present. This article is about the past.
Flashback to Thursday afternoon. Actually, flashback to my Thursday afternoon. It started with a turkey, and it ended with a black eye. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s 3 p.m. and my siblings and I arrive at my aunt’s house for a highly anticipated feast. Oh yeah, and for the family. I spend the next hour munching on appetizers and dodging questions about my future. My cousin wants to know where I’ll be working when I graduate. I want to know too—but I don’t. Rinse and repeat the same routine from great aunt to quirky uncle to grandparents and the room is starting to spin. Luckily, it’s turkey time.
My family flocks to the dining room, and all 25 of us pack in to gather ‘round the table. Consider “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” for a moment—do you recall the size of their family? Yeah, that’s about right. Now simply swap their spanakopita for some bagels and schmear and you’ve got us.
We begin the meal by discussing what makes this night different from all others nights. Oh wait, we don’t do that. That’s Passover.
We begin the meal by eating. Yeah, that’s better.
Fast-forward two hours. Some people have begun unbuttoning the tops of their pants while others have migrated to the couch for nap time. Come to think of it, this night isn’t really different from all other nights.
Now, for dessert: the best part of Thanksgiving. Not because of the pumpkin pie, or the apple pie, or the pecan pie or the infamous Edible Arrangements—although all of those things are delish. Dessert reigns supreme because that’s when we have our annual gingerbread decorating competition: The Gingerbread Brawl.
Confused? Allow me to explain. Every Thanksgiving, my 12 cousins and I participate in a bloodthirsty battle. We split into three teams, get five minutes to brainstorm themes for our gingerbread creations and pick two members from each team to head to CVS and buy candy decorating supplies. This is especially tough because each team has a $10 budget and must complete their shopping in less than 10 minutes.
It’s brutal.
After the CVS spree, the teams reconvene at my aunt’s and are given 15 minutes to create. Each team is supplied with two gingerbread men, communal frosting and team jerseys—sometimes. Once the 15 minutes is up, competitors must step away from the gingerbread. The judges (aka select members of the older generation) survey our culinary masterpieces, and at this point, it’s anyone’s game.
Before the winner is chosen however, each team elects a speaker. This representative must charm the judges with a brief speech to explain their team’s theme.
It’s a nail-biter people.
Now that you’ve got the gist of it, I can explain how things went from turkey to black eye. That is, if you haven’t already connected the dots.
To preface, I am a competitive creature. Typically I’m perfectly happy frolicking in fields and playing with puppies—but sometimes that is just isn’t enough. Effectively, I choose to exert all of my excess energy into this gingerbread competition. I’m talking sweatbands. I’m talking combat boots. I’m talking war paint. I take no prisoners.
So rewind to the peak of this culinary warfare. We have three minutes left. My team has opted for a NASA theme, hoping to sway the judges with our sentimental and socially relevant design. As my sister and I put the final touches on our gingerbread rocket ship (that’s right, we rock-it) I realize we are missing something. There is no American flag to place on our moon.
I looked at the candy on the table . . . Lifesavers, Twizzlers, gummy bears. Not gonna cut it. Suddenly, I see something gleaming on the table—a single square marshmallow—God Bless America. Immediately I know this will make the perfect flag, but as I reach for it, my cousin Benji—from the opposing team—does too.
Suddenly, the gingerbread brawl became a brawl unlike any other. We dive across the table, squirting tubes of frosting across the ceiling and coating the floor in a sea of sprinkles. It’s serious.
Two minutes later, the fight ends. I’ve gained a black eye, but I’ve also gained the marshmallow.
Unfortunately, my team did not win the competition, but it was the sweetest loss I have ever had. And despite my new shiner, I like to think I handled the competition with amazing grace. Although that, good citizens, is for another article.
Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at samtf@bu.edu.
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