The Thanksgiving Thief

Last Thanksgiving, Murphy ate an entire block of cheese.

To be honest, I couldn’t really blame him. My family, like most families, celebrates holidays with some form of delicious appetizer: stuffed olives and marinated mushrooms; fruits and nuts, fresh or dried or candied—it depends on what pairs nicely with the wine; interesting Scottish concoctions, such as haggis or mini shepherds pies or whatever my stepfather picked up at one of his Scottish Highland Games competitions; oysters on the half shell, plucked and shucked courtesy of my grandfather, an avid, elderly clammer. The appetizers are always good, sometimes better than the big meal, and Thanksgiving of 2009 was no different. Everyone decided against bacon wrapped chestnuts, because they were more of a December food, and we’d grown tired of the raw bar. Instead, we opted for something a bit more simple and refined: a nice cheese platter.  

Everyone was excited. My siblings and I are cheesers, courtesy of my mother, who is the biggest cheese of them all. I grew up on blocks of Swiss, thick slices of Cheddar. American was quickly snubbed for the softer Brie; Mozzarella didn’t even last an afternoon. We ate whatever Mom liked, and eventually developed a palate of our own, so the Thanksgiving appetizer suggestions were long and detailed: aged gruyere, the kind that tastes like an earthy caramel; creamy camembert to spread on some type of herbed cracker; smoked gouda, which we could eat by itself; sweet baby Swiss, to pair with fresh slices of apple and pear.

In the end, our spread included a very large, very delicious baked Brie, a thick wedge of creamy blue cheese, and everyone’s favorite cheese, a tangy, strange combination of cheddar, Swiss, and Parmesan, called Dubliner. Dubliner was a cheese I ran across right before I went to Ireland for three months, and it had a texture—hard, with small white calcium lactate crystals—that I’d never encountered before. The taste, sharp and mature, combined with the crystallized crunch made the cheese, already an addicting snack, irresistible.

Apparently Murphy felt the same way.

Thanksgiving afternoon rolled around; the turkey was pulled out of the oven and placed on the stove to rest, and my family, as well as some of Mom’s relatives, pulled out a chilled bottle of white wine. Glasses clanked with amber liquid, a bowl of roasted peanuts randomly appeared, and everyone moved into the family room to settle in spots around the coffee table. I squeezed myself between the cold fireplace hearth and one of my brothers, and as I waited for a slice of granny smith and blue cheese, watched as the contentedness reached the dogs; tugged them away from the smells of turkey and potatoes, and led them straight into our laps. Sandy curled up with my mother, and Murphy’s nose turned in the direction of food, like it always did. A few warning noises came from throughout the room, a sharp clearing of throats, and I pulled Murphy to me. After a wide-eyed, suffering look, he settled at my feet, away from trouble, and eventually fell asleep with my toes curled in his still-long fur.

For however long, we ate cheese. We talked and laughed and the warmth from the wine, and my dog, allowed for a realization of fulfillment, a capture of tangible moments that I still remember, a year later.

Of course, it didn’t last. Murphy was there, after all. Somewhere between talk of carving turkey and me basking in the perfection of the holiday, my dog startled out of sleep; leapt to his feet, violently jostling my wine glass on the way up. His head whipped this way and that, eyes landing on the unguarded cheese platter, on the fresh block of Dubliner someone had just placed onto the wooden cutting board. Faster than I’d ever seen, he was out of my lap and halfway across the room, our favorite appetizer wedged firmly in his mouth. I could only blink after him, the abrupt shift in mood like a cold, wet slap in the face.

 

He made it to the living room, a few rooms over, before anyone processed what the hell had happened. By the time I realized my dog, the good dog who had been so sweetly sleeping at my feet, had just stolen the entire block of Dubliner, my brothers had already run out of the room. Their voices boomed down the hallway, mingling with the sound of Murphy’s toenails as they dug furrows into the wood floor. I didn’t bother getting up; I sat on the floor, drank some more of my wine, and watched as Murphy raced around the house, tail wagging furiously, obviously enjoying the game of chase.

It would have been easy to run after the dog and yell and reprimand and tell him what good dogs are and are not supposed to do. But, what would have been the point? Not even five minutes before, I had been enjoying him, enjoying us, and it seemed entirely against the holiday to be ungrateful for the comfort and love he continually provided.

The scolding, at least by me, could wait.

Besides, he was only doing what my brothers and I had done our entire lives: Murphy was taking after his mom.