I braced myself for a fight.

Not a physical or verbal one but a wishful one.

Each Thanksgiving, after the pangs of hunger morphed into the aches of gluttony from overindulging in the customary feast, our family launched into another tradition: the “Snapsgiving Showdown.”

And I had never won.

After the main meal, the kids would clear the dirty dishes and replace them with smaller plates while the adults talked. My grandmother would then bring out the pecan and pumpkin pies and almost sing out, “Who’s ready for dessert?”

Inevitably, my dad would shout, “Not me …  I’m as stuffed as that turkey!” and then chuckle.

As slices of pie dwindled down to one, the tradition, or rather, the competition would begin.

The rules are simple: two contestants each take one prong of the turkey’s dried wishbone, technically called the furcula, and whoever snaps off the larger piece gets the last slice of pie.

Assuredly, the competition would be between my brother and me.

If you don’t know, my brother is five years my senior, whose size loomed over me as much as his competitive spirit. My youth was no excuse when we played anything. Chess? Checkmate. Basketball? Blocked. Rock-paper-scissors? “Dynamite!” And don’t think I didn’t whine to our mom when he pulled that one out. His philosophy: nothing comes easy in life.

Thanksgiving was no different. Every year, we’d both clamor for the prized last slice of pie. Every year, he’d win. I’d pout or even tear up, which prompted my sweet grandmother to split the piece. I’d lick my wounds and eat my portion, as my brother would eye me contemptuously as he finished his.

When I turned 12, I prepared. I realized the higher the grip, the better the leverage. I mastered the quick upward pull. Honestly, it was simple science.

As my grandmother called out offering up the last piece of pie, you would have thought a referee was ringing the bell to start a fight. My brother approached the furcula like Ivan Drago from Rocky IV. I, on the other hand, approached like Rocky … from Rocky and Bullwinkle.

As the prongs of the wishbone were placed in our hands, I exclaimed, “What’s that?!”

Classic misdirection. Everyone looked. I adjusted my grip.

“Snap!”

And with that snap, our little tradition continued something older than either of us. In fact, older than Thanksgiving itself. In 700 BC, the Etruscans of Tuscany believed birds were oracles. They dried the furcula and rubbed them for luck. When birds became scarce, the Romans began breaking the bones, granting the winner their wish. The custom eventually crossed continents and centuries to land in American dining rooms.

Kansas even has its own place in wishbone history. After returning from military service, restaurateur Phillip Sollomi Jr. opened Brooklyn’s Spaghetti House in Leavenworth with his mother. Later, they launched a larger Kansas City restaurant called Wishbone. Although it was meant to feature fried chicken, it was his mother’s Italian salad dressing that stole the show. They bottled it, shipped it and the Wishbone dressing we see in stores today was born.

That long tradition found its way into our family. And even though I don’t remember what I wished for back then, I do know what I want to wish for now. I would wish to hug everyone who’s gone, tell them how much I love and miss them and introduce them to my family.

Yet that tradition did exactly what it was meant to do: bring back memories, connect the past to the future and remind us of the importance of family, belonging, and love. A tradition we can carry on.

Well, except for my brother, who retired that day … after beating me yet again.

Oh well. I’m not bitter.

Those are the breaks.

Literally.

Todd Thompson is the Leavenworth County Attorney. Send email to MBray@leavenworthcounty.gov.