Every Thanksgiving, my grandpa insisted on having sauerkraut to “honor our German roots.”

Why my dad chose Thanksgiving 2015 to finally question this—or why it hadn’t dawned on him at any point during his previous 50 years on Earth—is a mystery to me. But there he was, plate in hand, staring at the sauerkraut with pure curiosity.

“Dad,” he announced to the entire room, “would you mind sharing our family’s story? Why did they leave Germany? When? How?”

Forks froze. The football game muted itself. We all turned to Grandpa, who looked genuinely confused.

“I don’t know the family story, son.”

Silence.

“Then… how do you know we’re German!?” Dad demanded.

Grandpa replied instantly, almost offended: “Because my name is Karl—with a K! Mamma told me it’s passed down. So we’re German!”

Deafening silence—thick with confusion, embarrassment, and the kind of fury you only see at family holidays.

Long story short—Dad exploded, and sauerkraut was never served at any future Thanksgiving meals.