It’s not dinner—it’s a family reunion staged as a psychological thriller with hors d’oeuvres.
There’s a specific flavor only trauma knows.
It’s butter, resentment, and that one sentence someone didn’t say in 1997 that’s still echoing through the green bean casserole.
You can smell it before you sit down.
The cinnamon. The sage.
The secrets.
Somebody brought pie.
Somebody else brought unresolved guilt disguised as a jello mold.
And someone—me—brought an escape plan and Xanax in a Tic Tac bottle.
And just like that… it’s Thanksgiving.
Or Christmas.
Or “Whatever Holiday We Pretend Isn’t a Seasonal Hostage Situation.”
They say food brings people together.
In my family, it’s more like a mutual ceasefire with carbs.
Our mouths stay full so we don’t say what we really mean.
“Pass the stuffing”
= I still resent you for ruining my wedding playlist.
“Who made the yams?”
= I heard you’re on your third divorce and I brought popcorn.
“Let’s say grace”
= I need 30 seconds to spiritually detach from this multigenerational trauma vortex.
I used to show up like I was going to emotional war.
Dress nice. Smile soft.
Keep your voice down.
Don’t mention therapy.
Don’t trigger Aunt Connie.
Don’t exist too loudly.
And somehow—every year—I’d leave with a full plate and a fractured soul.
But now?
Now I dress for freedom of movement and rapid exits.
Now I wear my boundaries like elastic waistbands—flexible but firm.
Now I don’t dodge dysfunction—I label it and serve it with sides.
When someone says something shady like,
“You’re looking… different lately,”
I just smile and say:
“Yeah, it’s called recovery, Brenda. Want a slice?”
I don’t explain myself anymore.
I watch them squirm in their own unsaid sentences.
And if the tension gets thick?
I cut it with pie.
And eye contact.
And a toast to “making it out alive.”
Because the table’s the same.
The menu’s the same.
But I’m not.
This year?
I came hungry.
And just healed enough to laugh—mid-bite.
So pass the damn rolls.
Pass the tension.
Just don’t pass me that generational gaslighting.
I’m gluten-sensitive to your bullsh*t now.
Holiday Dinners: Where Trauma Gets Gravy
Pass the rolls, dodge the shade, Family feasts where peace gets played.
Stuffing lies with sweet facade, Cranberry gaslight on the goddamn pod.
My plate is full, my eyes are glazed, Every bite, a trauma phrase.
But now I bring dessert and sass, And spike the nog with “kiss my ass.”
—The Funny Phoenix, stirring shame into pie crusts
