Thankful. So, the day of tryptophan and togetherness is nearly at hand…and I love it. Already sprinting through my thirties, I have yet to grow tired of the family, the craziness, the traveling, the Macy’s parade, the stuffingohyummyohmythestuffing, and, for the third year, the cooking.
When I was little, we would all pile into the family car to travel over the river and through the woods to Nanny’s house…although the woods were the foul-smelling refineries of the Jersey Turnpike. Family would cram into the tiny dining room, the table extensions literally groaning under the fruits of a week’s cooking. I remember my grandmother flitting about, serving, shuffling plates, grabbing another “beeyah”, saving the cornucopia from curious little hands, and sitting with us for no more than five minutes at a time, before heading to the kitchen for reinforcements and responding to continuous (and in retrospect, quite selfish) demands for more, more, more!
After my Nanny passed away, the one time we were all together soon disintegrated — to our extended family’s great detriment. Never did I realize how important that One Day was to everyone. Annoyed with each other, of course. A bit tipsy and obnoxious, sure. Cousins teasing and fighting, yep. But checking in, being together, remembering that we were family and actually did, under all the crapola, really love and treasure each other and our mutual memories, was a pearl of great price. A pearl that is lost under a couch somewhere, never to be found again.
My dear father, trying to resurrect this tradition, while being generous in spirit to my mother — who hates to cook (we will return to that) even though she is good at it! — began buying a catered Thanksgiving dinner from a local restaurant. Imagine the comedy of ineptness as various brothers (and father) strove not to spill the gravy, dump the green beans, or smash the rolls on the way back home! I was always grateful to miss that part, taking over the table-setting, drink-pouring, stove-warming, younger-sibling-corralling part of the day, waiting for a completed dinner to arrive at Casa Crazy.
Although I appreciated that my mother was able to enjoy her Thanksgiving, I also realized (as we kids all agreed) that the food didn’t hold a candle to my grandmother’s. I think part was our kid aversion to change, but part was really that the mass-produced food was not as tasty as what could be prepared at home. Some years were superior to others, dishes varied from nearly succulent to (a couple of times) desert-like in their dried out state. Our acceptance of this, though sometimes begrudging, was deepened by the fact that our mother was happy…and by extension that my father was not tense as a result. A peaceful, if purchased, feast.
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This year, for the first time, it will just be the four of us. No guests, no traveling, no big plans. Rex and Kenta are too young to volunteer, so a quiet day at home is planned…well quiet but for the Macy’s Parade and the carnival of calls certain to demand many moments away from the oven.
It feels strange not to be sharing this day with extended family, but I remain determined to cook my heart out and to give this little family a delicious meal that will itself be a good Thanksgiving memory.
Of course, I still have to settle the question: to brine or not to brine…and stuffing in or out…and pecan or pumpkin (husband says neither)…and whew. We’ll get there.
Thankful.
