Stuffing Me Softly

Politics were banned before dinner was on the table. The argument began, as these things often do, with something small and insignificant. This time, it was the stuffing recipe for Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Lisa wanted to try something “healthier”—quinoa and cranberries. Uncle Ron declared, with all the bluster of a man defending sacred tradition, that stuffing wasn’t stuffing unless it was soaked in turkey grease and stuffed where it belonged. Always crude, he softened his argument for the elders and the womenfolk.

But it wasn’t really about stuffing. It never was.

“This is just like you, Lisa!” Ron shot, slapping the kitchen counter. “Always trying to fix things that aren’t broken!” He felt a grimm uneasiness creep over him.

Lisa, arms crossed, shot back. “And you’re just like you, Ron—always dragging your knuckles across the floor like a stanky baboon, afraid of change!”

Lisa’s teenage son, Dylan, sat in the living room, texting furiously on his phone. Every now and then, he glanced toward the kitchen with the detached curiosity of someone observing hungry wildlife from a safe distance.

Grandma Pearl, sitting in her armchair by the window, clicked her knitting needles together without looking up. “Keep this up, and I’ll stuff you in the turkey and call it a family meal! You’ll be the side dish nobody wanted!”

She spoke, but her voice evaporated before their ears.

“Why don’t you just admit it?” Ron continued. “You’ve been holding a grudge against me since 2004—when I got the promotion at the dealership and you didn’t!”

Lisa’s face flushed. “That’s what you think this is about? That stupid job? I didn’t even want it, Ron! I let you have it because I knew you needed to feel like a big stupid!”

“Oh, you let me have it?” Ron roared. “How generous of you! What’s next, you’re going to take credit for my retirement fund?”

“You’re impossible!” Lisa belted out, throwing up her hands. “Why do I even try talking to you?”

Dylan, sensing an escalation, grabbed the family dog, Milo, and whimpered upstairs.

Grandma Pearl finally set down her knitting, slowly rising to her feet. She moved with the deliberate grace of someone who had been through worse than family squabbles—wars, recessions, and at least two near-death experiences.

“I’ve had just about enough of this,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the argument like a blade.

Ron and Lisa turned to look at her, startled.

“Neither of you is leaving this house until you apologize to each other,” Pearl declared.

“Oh, come on, Mom,” Ron groaned. “We’re not kids anymore.”

“No, you’re not,” Pearl grinned, reaching for the dusty karaoke machine in the corner. “Which is why I have a more… sophisticated method of resolving this.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Pearl replied, plugging in the machine. “You’re going to sing your apologies. And I’m not talking about mouthing the words—I want heart. I want soul. Otherwise, we’ll be here all night.”

Ron threw his hands in the air. “This is for morons!”

“Ridiculous,” Pearl said, adjusting the mic, “is two grown adults screaming at each other over quinoa. Now pick a song idiot.”

Lisa groaned but stepped forward, scrolling through the songbook with a sigh. She settled on Adele’s “Someone Like You”, leaning heavily into the lyrics about regret and moving on. She sang with great spirit, respectfully hitting some notes and not others. The performance might not have impressed Adele, but it did manage to convey just enough bitterness to make Ron roll his eyes.

“Is that your idea of an apology?” he sneered.

Pearl didn’t wait for Lisa’s response. “Your turn, Ronald.”

Ron grumbled under his breath as he flipped through the options, settling on Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word”. His voice was gravelly and out of tune, but the irony of the song choice wasn’t lost on anyone.

“Terrible,” Pearl said when he finished. “Both of you. Again.”

She thought of classics like “Someone Left a Cake Out in the Rain”, or “Having my Baby” just to dick with them.

Lisa groaned. “I don’t have the vocal cords for this!”

“You have vocal cords for shouting,” Pearl shot back. “Sing.”

Round two began with Lisa attempting “Let It Go” from Frozen, her voice cracking halfway through the chorus. Ron retaliated with an off-key version of “We Are the Champions,” which felt more like a declaration of war than an apology.

By round four, both of them were visibly sweating, their voices hoarse and their tempers frayed. Even Dylan had reappeared, peeking like a mouse from the staircase with Milo in his arms, thoroughly entertained.

“Can we stop now?” Lisa begged, collapsing onto the couch. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I wanted to change the recipe. I’m sorry I didn’t take the dealership job. I’m sorry for—whatever else you think I did!”

Ron wiped his brow, leaning against the wall for support. “And I’m sorry for being a stubborn jerk. And for… okay, some of the other stuff too.”

Pearl tilted her head, pretending to consider their words. “Hmm. Acceptable.”

Lisa glared at her brother. “You could at least try to sound sincere.”

“You first,” Ron shot back.

Pearl sighed, turning the mic back on. “Do we need a duet to settle this?”

“No!” they shouted in unison.

“Good,” Pearl said, finally unplugging the machine. “Because I was about to make you sing Endless Love.”

Lisa and Ron exchanged weary looks, the kind that said, “We’re never speaking of this again.”

As peace settled over the house, Dylan stepped into the room, still holding a tissue of shit from the dumb dog, with Milo under his arm.

“Best Thanksgiving ever,” he said with a grin and tossed the stanky clump into the trash.

And just like that, the argument was back on—but this time, it was over who had traumatized him more. Pearl, smiling to herself, returned to her knitting, already planning which songs she’d use for these clowns on Christmas.