This morning my bubba, his wife, and their child-dog fly in for what Central Market has now re-named ‘The Festival of Feasting’. I guess the real reason that the holiday is all about family is because true no-holds-barred gluttony should really be indulged in before members of your own clan, relieved of the complexities of the existential self. That said, my family has rarely appreciated displaced holiday guests around our dinner table…unless they’ve got very thick skin.

Over the years my brothers and I have formed secret sibling pacts and alliances behind my mother’s back in order to maintain a cheerful peaceful atmosphere. These are tried and true disarmament methods, and new amendments are adopted and reviewed prior our meeting sometimes days or weeks in advance of when we all show up. It’s the least we can do after mothers 2-3 days of kitchen servitude.

For instance, my brother, sister-in-law and their child-dog promise to show up for the meal on time, despite the complicated juggling of the holiday amongst in-laws. We thus avoid the fight that happens when mom is trying to keep the food warm, or the fight that happens when we’re all bickering in a semi-delusional state we refer to as ‘crazy hungry’.

My deal is to promise not to show up pissed off with a hangover from bacchanalian pre-Thanksgiving festivities. This is tough when you want to hang out all night with out-of-town guests, but it actually works out for me because then I can drink all throughout the day with a mellow and rather charming buzz. We thus avoid the fight that happens when someone asks a personal question or looks at me funny.

This year, my youngest…my ‘baby-bubba’ has promised not to show up at all, on account of a ‘mistaken’ identity. He is not in a good place, he says. I can respect that, I say. He can’t deal with their shit, he says. They defend you and love you behind your back, I say. They’re never going to accept me, he says. There are going to people that misunderstand and misinterpret you your whole life, I just think that if anyone deserves your intellect and energy to prove them wrong, it’s these people, I say. There’s no way to avoid this fight, and I'm not going, he says. Not even for an hour? I hate it, I say.

So tomorrow afternoon, after I sleep off my tryptophan hangover, I’ll gather up a plate of my mom and brother’s perfect turkey, my grandmother’s stuffing recipe, and a big slice of apple pie, and I’ll take it to my brother’s little apartment up in the suburb of Plano. He’ll ask how the day went, what happened, and how everyone got along, and he’ll be genuinely curious to know. His cell phone will be blowing up from the hundreds of friends he has, trying to catch him and wish him a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ and make plans to meet up together after they finish dinner at their family’s house.

I feel like I’m visiting an invalid or a shut in rather than my animated, strong-willed, and courageous brother.

I feel like he broke our pact.