The Kids Table at Thanksgiving

We ONCE SPENT an entire Thanksgiving Day convincing our cousin Derk to say “sh!t” during grace at the meal.

Xmas 1977, sisters KERRY, LORI & KANDY

What could be more deplorable than cussing during grace? Nothing, so we set about the task. Derk was five years younger than us, prone to cussing anyway and so the perfect front man.

We can remember this as possibly the worst thing we ever did growing up. Yes, we were that good. We would never dream of swearing during grace. Our parents would never believe we were capable of even suggesting it. Therefore, it was fail proof.

Derk would garner our undying admiration, we would derive a vicarious thrill, he would be grounded until eternity, we would maintain our angelic status.

There sat Great Grandma Rae saying grace, her little head barely clearing the height of the table, while her beloved great-grandchildren sat at the Kids’ Table in the back room, scheming the unimaginable.

It was go time. “Do it!” we urged Derk in hushed whispers. And just when she was about to say “Amen,” he let loose the four-letter word.

We all held our breath, stock still, terrified. We looked at the adults and waited. What would happen? Who would be kilt first?

No one, it turned out. We were flat-out ignored. We were not given the floor during grace nor during dinner. As we looked at each other, an epiphany arrived hot in our hands: We were second-string to the turkey.

The women had toiled all day to make us a magnificent meal and, for now, we could just shut up and eat it.

Not to be deterred, we shifted gears to Operation Mashed Potatoes. With a little coaching, Derk could easily launch a well-packed spoonful from here to somewhere between the cranberry sauce and Uncle Dick’s ashtray.

“Do it!” we urged Derk in hushed whispers. (Side note: This was long before the days of internet and other forms of misbehaving. We were in the heart of the U.P. We had to, by default, come up with our own fun.)

We figured angle and distance, timing and stance. The plan was to Launch and Not Look. We would act as surprised as the adults when the potatoes arrived over Aunt Barb's shoulder.

Go time! Derk launched the missile with both gusto and nonchalance. We watched it sail, clearing our heads before we saw it land, splat, on the carpet. We were no mathematicians, but this was bad. It hadn't even left the room, let alone traversed the three short steps up into the dining room.

Which is when the giggles started. We were hysterical with relief, screaming with laughter. Aunt Linda called out a “Watch it, yous!” without looking up. (Sidenote: “Yous” is part of the Yooper vernacular. Used to sign off all birthday cards, i.e. “Love yous.”)

Another epiphany arrived: We had somehow procured an invisibility shield around the Kids' Table. A new freedom rained down upon us. What else could we get away with?

Naturally, Operation Mashed Potatoes turned into an all-out food fight among the cousins. Peas and kernel corn proved to be real flyers, while gravy did the heavy lifting of ruining blouses. Due to Grandma's penchant for side dishes, we had no shortage of things to experiment with.

We soon realized we could all commence swearing, at will, because the turkey was that good that year.

We were, without exaggeration, having a ball.

But it couldn't last forever. When we finally launched Jell-O onto the ceiling, we knew we were in for it. Eventually the shield would be pierced, and, with our luck, it would be our father who would do the piercing. Even with little old gray-haired ladies as witnesses, he never failed to discipline and heavily.

Our goodness came flooding back. We mastered a rebound plan: Send Derk to the kitchen to get a wet dishrag. His only instructions: Do not make eye contact.

Sure enough, he blew it. The adults wanted to know what the rag was for. He stood there mute, the adults expectant, the cousins on tenterhooks.

But then Grandma, as she was prone to do, saved the day: “Yous kids cleaning up the dishes?” she asked, not waiting for a reply. “What good kids!”

What could we say to that except... Amen!

And with that, we wish yous Happy Holidays this year!

Reject a Hit: Runny Babbit

I'm so excited to have another piece published in Writer's Digest this month!

It's their back of the book column named "Reject a Hit" where they ask you to spoof-reject a famous book. This was a fun one to write. I spoof-rejected Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook by Shel Silverstein. My husband Tim suggested it while we were driving to the U.P. for the Fourth of July and it was too irresistible. Instead of enjoying the views of the Mackinac Bridge, I was writing and giggling in the passenger seat with my notebook.

Pick up the November issue of Writer's Digest to read all their great articles (it's my fav writers' mag)! Here's my piece (with text below).

If you haven't read Runny Babbit with your kids, it's a must! Also, it's a fine hit among adults and we've actually gotten physical over whose turn it was to read the next poem aloud. (Kids meanwhile have left the room and started the car. On fire.)

Dear Mr. Silverstein,

Thank you for submitting your pildren’s choetry book, "Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook." At first, I found it cather ratching. I took it home to let it sit awhile, and I had a little fun with it, too, dalking the wog and serving dicken chinner for supper. But, unfortunately, it wore thin and soon my family asked me to nook cormally and leave the wog out of it.

But I didn't give up yet. I took it to a Tarent Peacher meeting. While they argued over dyslexia funding, I shared a sick little laugh over Runny Babbit with my neighbor, the gym teacher. We agreed – your book could be a Four de Torce – but would be the bane of teachers everywhere. I thought it was a "no" for your book at this point. But when Principal Houghton burrowed her frows at us across the empty library, I reconsidered yet again.

Finally I took it to our Meditorial Eeting at the agency. A small scuffle broke out for the pages of your book. Everyone wanted to rolve the siddles in your poems. Rita lost an earring in the deal and Earl blew up a spowl of baghetti in the microwave. But the worst was when Adam put his phone on silent to recite your rhymes out loud, standing on a chair.

And... he missed a long-awaited call for a fix-sigure deal at auction. It's put our agency in jinancial feopardy. We needed that deal. Without it, we can't publish your bamn dook or anyone else's for that matter.

Tonight, my hamily is fungry, my post on the PTA is a ping of the thast and my bagency is ankrupt.

It's a definite no. You've surely put the run on this babbit.

Literary Agent,

Chandace Kapple

10-Day Smoothie Cleanse, plus a bag of Whoppers

I decided to do the 10-Day Green Smoothie Cleanse. It involved blending spinach and kale and fruit. I felt confident I could trick my taste buds into consuming what my dad calls "rabbit food." I could do this. For 10 days. And eat nothing else. For 10 days. I recruited a friend to do it with me. For 10 days.

3 days, tops.

Day 1: I realize my blender has a "smoothie" button. (Had previously only been acquainted with the "milkshake" button.) I make the first smoothie with a lot of show, fingers running about the recipe with authority. I can feel my cells plump with nutrition. Spinach is consumed. Sugar is not. I walk around with a cocky air all day, one smoothie healthier. Until my head starts pounding at about 4 p.m. This is expected. I settle into being nasty to everyone around me and hold steady.

Day 2: Starving. My body is pulsing from all the green I’ve shoved into it. But I won’t relent. Not on Day 2. That would be an embarrassment for all involved. By 4 p.m., the headache is back and I’m meaner than ever. I decide to bike nearly 2 hours on a glorious fall day. It feels delicious until I bonk in the last half hour. I have to drag my body into the house and apply it to the couch. I sip the last of my smoothie slack-jawed.

Day 3: Get me a grilled chicken breast, someone, now. It’s “allowed” on the smoothie cleanse if, and only if, I can’t stand the starvation. That is correct. I can’t stand the starvation. My arms and legs are weak and lousy after 3 days of nothing but nutrition. I make a mistake then. I do some figuring. The smoothies amount to only 400 calories for the ENTIRE DAY. I am shocked. The only thing harder would be Naked and Afraid.

Day 4: A small Halloween-sized bag of Whoppers is consumed. 100 calories. They are glorious. They taste almost as good as the chicken breast did. I savor each one, allowing the waxy chocolate to disgust and appease me all at once.

Day 5: Wake with a blistering sense of shame. I did not even make it halfway. And worse, I woke up and thought about the Whoppers before I did my own children. I continue making the smoothies, announcing loudly to anyone who will listen that they are, again, only 400 calories for the ENTIRE DAY. My family says nothing. They also do not comment on the tiny Whoppers bags starting to dot the landscape.

Day 6: My partner in crime is holding firm. She has asked me to not send her calorie counts or to talk about Whoppers. I am trying to explain to her that I’m training for a bike race. I will disintegrate into thin air on this diet with one burst of effort on my bike. She asks me how Whoppers fit into my training plan.

Day 6, Evening: In bed, I think about never talking to her again.

Day 7: Go completely off the rails. Discover a smoothie is great with a bowl of ice cream.

Day 8: I weigh in. I have lost 3 lbs. I am overjoyed. I frantically try to regain traction on the smoothie cleanse. If I cleanse the next three days, I can lose 6 lbs. total. (This, the mathematical model for dieters everywhere.) The last of the Whoppers are disposed of through consumption and I vow to buy no more.

Day 9: Only 2 days to go. The smoothie cleanse has been way easier than I thought it would be. I have chicken breast for lunch and dinner. I also resume my relationship with Whoppers in the checkout lane at Tom’s by midday. I was never addicted to them before this but it’s clear now they are tied directly to the effects of spinach.

Day 10: A smoothie in the morning and the 10^th day is checked off. I am relieved. I can continue eating my favorites without the guilt.

In the end: My friend, who never wavered, lost 10 lbs. I lost 2 lbs., hard fought after multiple negotiations with the scale, on and off, on and off, one foot raised, looking West.

But: The biggest plus of taking on the 10-Day Green Smoothie Cleanse is that it’s been three weeks and I’m still drinking green smoothies every day. My cells are, in fact, plumped. I am a robust model of how the greatness of kale can be drowned in the sweet taste of strawberries or peaches.

While I didn't have the willpower for 10 days, I still recommend the book - 100 smoothie recipes that are easy to follow. Look, it's turned a girl who eats bags of Halloween candy into a girl who (also) eats bags of spinach and kale. Bags.

And: My children and husband are eating smoothies too! We are cranking through spinach and swiss chard and baby kale like a regular herd of rabbits around here.