Dude, pass the turkey

It WAS HARD, THAT first Thanksgiving. Petulant teenagers were everywhere, putting the whole family on edge. Food was scarce, the Merlot running low. No one wanted to take out the trash.

“Please take out the trash,” a Pilgrim mom asked for the 11th time.

“Ohmygod, Mom, can’t you see I’m busy?” a little red-haired Pilgrim said.

“Just take out the trash!” hollered the father, who, like a lot of Pilgrim dads, had a pretty short fuse around the holidays.

It had been like a bad vacation, this trip to the New World. Service was spotty. The food gamey. The weather unreliable.

Sure, real estate prices were rock bottom, way better than in England. The Pilgrims had settled into a little subdivision -- America’s first -- with a brand-new school and plans to eventually add a nice Pinkberry.

“I don’t like this new life,” a Pilgrim boy complained.

“Yeah, there’s nothing to do,” grumbled his Pilgrim sister.

“Here, sweep the kitchen,” said Pilgrim dad, handing them both brooms. “Now you have something to do.”

Pilgrim parents were always like that, riding the kids about their chores and their schoolwork. The parents didn’t take much guff, which is how they wound up in the New World in the first place. In a lot of ways, they were the first hippies. Dropouts from society.

“Why’d we have to move here anyway?” groaned one of the Pilgrim kids.

“To, like, flee religious persecution,” explained one of the other Pilgrim kids.

“Ohmygod, God!” gasped one of the Pilgrim kids.

“Totally,” said one of the Pilgrim kids.

Back then, teenagers always seemed a little angry. There was a lot of work to do in the New World, so they could rarely sleep till noon, which is what Pilgrim teenagers preferred. “Go build a barn,” their dads were constantly saying. “Go raise a church or something.”

Whatever.

But before America’s first multiuse commercial property could be put in, even before the first Home Depot, the Pilgrims had to find a way to feed themselves. They tried comedy writing, but there was a bitter strike. They turned to law, but there were no conflicts or criminals. Someone suggested starting a stock market, but there were few working-class people to exploit.

“Hey, there’s them folks down the block,” Uncle Mert suggested.

So they invited the Indians over, and when these neighbors showed up to the house, they carried big platters of food: wild game, corn and several cans of low-fat whipped cream, which turned out to be a Pilgrim weakness.

“Wow,” said one of the Pilgrim moms, “these neighbors are sooooooo nice.”

“Yeah, let’s not exploit them,” suggested a Pilgrim dad.

“At least not today,” said Uncle Mert.

As one of the Pilgrims noticed, the Indians weren’t carrying any proof of residency. But they seemed to have thrived in this New World for a very long time. They were at one with the land, which was weird. They were receptive to their new Pilgrim neighbors, which was even weirder.

“Thanks for having us over,” said an Indian dad.

“Take a load off,” said a Pilgrim dad.

All the Pilgrim children were very excited at the opportunity to meet new boys and girls. On their recent 3,000-mile cruise, they’d met zero new friends. They were tired of the same old faces. Tired of the same lame clothes.

“Look! Uggs!” said one of the Pilgrim girls, admiring the young Indians’ footwear.

“They’re so tight!” said another.

“Look, goths,” said the Indian children, pointing at the Pilgrim clothing.

“No, we just prefer black,” explained the Pilgrim kids.

“Our parents, like, make us,” said another.

Everyone ate well, that first Thanksgiving. There were awkward pauses and sideways glances as the dinner guests tried to sneak peeks at their new acquaintances.

At the children’s table, one of the boys did something inappropriate with the yams, which would become an American tradition.

“Behave, you kids,” said a Pilgrim mom.

“Is this turkey organic?” asked a Pilgrim girl home from college.

When it was over, everyone milled around the front door, taking too long to say goodbye. They hugged repeatedly, causing several of the gassy fathers to burp.

“This was fun,” lied one of the Indian moms as they said goodnight.

“Next time, our place!” called out an Indian dad.

“You know, maybe we should do this every year,” one of the Pilgrim moms said brightly.

And so they did.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.

For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.