Okay, so the prompt was originally “What’s your worst Thanksgiving dish ever?” but I couldn’t think of one.  I mean, there are several I don’t prefer (and saying that leads to a whole other blog post bout my childhood) but none I’d qualify as worst.  Thanksgiving is an awesome holiday with a pretty much set menu (which is one of things that makes it awesome).  So, on the odd chance one of the family grandmas figure out the internet sometime soon and stumble across this blog, I thought I’d better stick to something that is a known “worst” holiday dish in my family: hot fruit.

Much like Thanksgiving, Christmas in my home growing up, no matter where we lived, was pretty much a set menu.  Spiced Bundt cake, pink grapefruit, some form of protein (on a good year, smokey links in BBQ sauce because nothing says “fa-la-la-la-la” like a small fondue pot and a toothpick food).   Sometimes the Bundt cake was switched out to be Monkey Bread, but a big hunk of sugared carbs was always there.

Then came that fateful year when my mom, bless her heart, decided it was time to try something new.  Let’s call it the 1980’s and blame it on that.  Somewhere she’d come across a recipe for hot sliced citrus fruit – grapefruit, oranges – baked in some type of sugared syrup with spices – fennel seems to ring a bell.  Aesthetically speaking, it was one nice looking dish, the fruit all dominoed on top of each other, served in the Royal Dalton casserole (which NEVER went in the dishwasher or microwave!).  My mom was rather proud and pleased of herself indeed.  And she should have been.  Alas, however, she was saddled with three kids who hadn’t quite reached a point in their maturity to clue in on the effort and gracefully try it.  I can’t remember what my siblings did, but I’m pretty sure out of my mouth came something rudely obnoxious like, “Hot fruit belongs between two crusts served with ice cream not at Christmas!”  *headdesk*

It was the one and only time we had hot fruit.  Now, have I grown up any?  Eh.  Debatable.  Have I served things to my children and have they reacted in the same way?  Oh yeah.  And I deserved it.  But hey, if anything came out of the hot fruit debacle it was this:  When I serve my children a “hot fruit” dish, I call my mom because that’s what you do when your own actions sit around your kitchen table and serve it right back to you.