Thanksgivings Past

That's me on Thanksgiving 2010 with the two turkeys I roasted in the oven for the usual crowd. The oven died afterwards. It roasted those two turkeys with its last gasp.

When I was growing up in Cliffwood Beach, my mother went all out for Thanksgiving. She missed her family out in western Pennsylvania on holidays. There was one Thanksgiving when Dad drove us all out in a snowstorm to see my grandparents in Canonsburg, PA. On our arrival, my grandfather told us we were crazy. 😉

Most of the time, Mom cooked the special feast just for six--my father, my sisters, my brother, me and herself. However, there was one memorable Thanksgiving when my brother invited four of his classmates from college to join us. They came from India. One of them was a Muslim, so turkey was fine with him. However, three of them were Hindus and vegetarian. They wound up eating a lot of biscuits.

My mother's preparations for Thanksgiving started off a day ahead when she made three kinds of pies. She made only one mince meat pie for my father, which no one else would eat because nobody else liked mince pie. She also made apple pies and pumpkin pies--all from scratch with her own pie dough. (Rolled pie crusts had not been invented yet.)

My brother, my sisters and I were all Mom's apprentices. Each of us had specific jobs to do. I usually got the job of making the cream sauce for the cauliflower. My brother usually chopped up celery and onions for the stuffing.

Our feast consisted of mashed rutabaga, cauliflower with cream sauce, and onions with cream sauce, too. Having grown up in a house with five brothers, Mom always cooked enough for an army. There was not just the stuffing that went into the turkey, but another pan of stuffing as well. We had corn, sweet potatoes, and mashed potatoes. And biscuits, of course.

It was a lot of work.

Due to COVID-19, this year is very different. We have been trying to stay safe for eight months so hubby and I will be dining alone. We'll be sharing a three pound turkey breast, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a frozen vegetable mix. (I haven't decided which one yet.) I made cookies for dessert. Hubby isn't fond of pumpkin pie, so I figured I wouldn't bother to make one for just me. Not cooking for a crowd is a lot less work. 

After we eat, we'll get on Zoom with our gang and chat about what they had to eat. Video chats are not the same as real hugs, but for now that's what we need to do. 

Stay safe. 😷

💕💕💕 

Some Sort of Miracle

I woke up yesterday to find a single daisy flowering in our yard. I decided it had to be a sign of from my mother. Daisies were her favorite flower and are not usually seen blooming at the end of November in New Jersey.

I cooked Thanksgiving dinner--again. The first time I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, I was 19 and my mother was in the hospital with soaring high blood pressure. Up until that point, I had always been my mother’s apprentice. Mom was an exacting cook. Everything had to be done her way. The celery was chopped just so. Mom made stuffing from scratch. The pie crust had to be handled gently so it would be flaky and light. My siblings and I were relegated to certain specific tasks for the annual Thanksgiving feast, but that year, I did it all. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest meal but I enjoyed the sense of accomplishment I found in my own ability to rise to the occasion.

As Mom aged, I took over the role of hosting Thanksgiving every year for the burgeoning clan. Mom always brought yams and pumpkin pies to the feast. With her gone, I made the pumpkin pies and one of my sisters made the yams. My other sister made apples pies and cranberry relish. My daughters are my assistants—though I am by no means as exacting as my mother was. Some things are not worth all the fuss because the fact is that Thanksgiving isn’t about the food. It’s about reconnecting and catching up--long conversations with the people I love. It’s about laughter and the treasured memories that we share—and passing those memories along to the next generation.

Mom isn’t with us anymore—except in spirit, and hers was an indomitable one. As I was whipping the potatoes a wave of sadness washed over me because Mom wasn’t there, but then I thought of the daisy outside. It is difficult to be down when you’ve got your own little miracle occurring right outside the back door.

I gave the daisy to my father at the end of the evening. I’m sure the daisy was meant as much for him as it was for me.