On the Monday before Thanksgiving, I find myself less
focused on the turkey and more on the way traditions shift—how the table
shrinks, the menu changes, but the essence of gathering remains. My Thanksgiving
memories are as succulent as a roasted turkey, gleaming brown and crisp on a
platter in the middle of a laden table.
My childhood recollections have taken on a Norman Rockwell
patina, which is particularly apt since I grew up in the 50s and 60s when his
hometown-America paintings graced the covers of The Saturday Evening Post. Our
big family (seven kids) filled up the table even when we didn’t have company,
which we often did.
With a 20-year difference between the oldest and youngest
of us, meals were always loud and boisterous, but holidays had an extra frisson
of expectation and anticipation. I remember oddities, like my sister Janet in
her highchair with a tiny glass of wine. My parents always poured wine for everyone
at the table on holidays – even for toddlers!
Before I graduated into adulthood, defined as responsible
for making a whole Thanksgiving dinner, I joined others for what we learned to
call Friendsgiving, but back then simply called a potluck. Many
of those potlucks in the 70s had elements of hippie culture, noticeably
marijuana in the dressing or the brownies. It was pot luck for sure!
Eventually, my turn to produce the whole dinner came
around and I threw myself into it, eager to prove that I could live up to those
remembered childhood meals. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and
green bean casserole. (And just why are green beans the veggie of Thanksgiving?
They are not my favorite, but they’re ubiquitous!) Okay, confession, I have
never made a green bean casserole, I always let someone bring it to share, but
I will eat it. The French fried onions and mushroom soup suck me in.
I loved to show off my cooking, but most especially, I
loved to bake. Those main course items may be in my wheelhouse, but I’d rather
be baking. I am really good at making pie crust, which I do the old fashioned
way, the way my mother taught me, with two dinner knives cutting across each
other through the flour and shortening until it becomes precisely pea-sized,
then sprinkling on a little water and transforming it into flaky perfection.
Another trick my mother taught me: always make extra pie
dough that you can roll out onto a cookie sheet. Smear it with butter and
sprinkle liberally with sugar and cinnamon. Bake and you will shortly have one
of life’s exquisite pleasures. Sometimes I sprinkle on chopped pecans. Last
year I made a quick and easy date spread and slathered that on before baking.
OMG, good!
I always bake pumpkin pies and, because Alix doesn’t like
pumpkin, French apple pies, which have a crumble topping instead of a top
crust. (My apple peeler-corer-slicer is probably the best investment I ever
made with Pampered Chef!) In my heyday, I made two of each, but there aren’t
enough of us to eat that many nowadays.
In the past, we hosted big Thanksgiving dinners for
friends and family, the more the merrier, but things change. For the last few
years, we’ve joined old friends for dinner at the Red Lion Pub, a notable
Thanksgiving provisioner in Houston. The food has been delicious and plentiful—there’s always enough
for leftovers— but
it comes to the table ready to eat. There’s no golden-breasted turkey to admire
and the pie is an added cost. Oh well, I’ll always have my homemade pies to
enjoy.
This year we are joining Alix and Adam at his mother’s
house. Carol has graciously hosted before. We have six adult children plus a
couple of their spouses and a handful of grandkids between us, but the most we can
muster in Houston on an average Thanksgiving is six people total. It’s still a
family dinner, but not like my memories.
Whether at a crowded table or a quiet pub, the heart of
Thanksgiving is the same: finding joy in what is, not just what was.
I hope you get a Thanksgiving that gives you joy!
Tschṻβ
(Tschuss)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment