Thanksgiving; A Breaking of Tradition

Ah! On Thanksgiving day....

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before.

What moistens the lips and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

~John Greenleaf Whittier

With a few days to go until the big feast I stepped into the dining room and noticed that Cora had set the big table with the Thanksgiving tablecloth.  Pausing for a moment I realized sadly, that it wouldn’t be used this year.  This year the table would sit empty and idle on Thanksgiving. 

For over a quarter of a century, Cora and I have hosted Thanksgiving.  The first time Cora and I had Thanksgiving together we weren't married yet.  I was living in Berkeley and Cora came to visit from Los Angeles where she was living at the time.  I took her to my parents’ home in San Mateo for dinner.  It was where we celebrated Thanksgiving for the first six years of our marriage until mom passed suddenly on her birthday.  Thanksgiving fell on us. 

Thanksgiving 1985.  Cora and mom in the kitchen

Every dinner, every year has had its own special personality.  There was the smoked turkey.  There was the 20 pound turkey that wasn't going to be big enough for the crowd and so I added a barbecued prosciutto wrapped turkey breast that turned out more popular than the big bird.  For years there was chestnut stuffing until buying chestnuts became a craps shoot.   After a couple years of spending seven dollars a pound for chestnuts that revealed a greenish dust when cracked open we turned to cornbread stuffing.  Oh and the pies?  Cream pies, apple pies, mince pies, shoo-fly pies, pecan pies and of course, always, pumpkin pies. My friend Scott has on occasion furnished cheese cake. 

Gatherings have been as small as the four of us; Cora and I and the kids sitting quietly at the dining table to about 25 doing a buffet style and spread all over the house.  There’s always been football on TV.  There’s been throwing the football around in the afternoon and there have been board games after dinner.  Bourbons, brandies, Scotch, liqueurs, wines and beer. Sometimes to excess but always in good cheer.  Our son never missed a Thanksgiving.  During her San Diego State days our daughter was missed from the table.  We set a place for her anyway and during the evening she called us; crying.  Cora always had a tradition of inviting people from work who didn't have family in the area.  She called them orphans.  We've had the picky eaters (who could be picky on Thanksgiving?).  When he was young my nephew could spend hours at the Thanksgiving table pushing the food around his plate.  Now in his early twenties he can eat a meal as if it will be his last on Earth.  I marvel at how much he can eat and then remember that when I was his age I did the same – refilling my plate to the brim two or three times before sampling all the desserts.  Now one small plate of food is enough to fill me up.  Sometimes, in a foolish effort to relive my youth I go for seconds.  Or is it just lack of will power?  

During his last years with us, Dad struggling with dementia always brightened up when Thanksgiving rolled around.  He might not have remembered exactly what and why but in the early morning he knew that something was up.  Through the course of the day he anticipated the arrival of guests and the feast to come.  For the rest of the year it was rare that he anticipated anything.  Dad came to the table wearing an old felt hat, looking like a grizzled old cowboy.  Thanksgiving was one of the few days that lit a spark in his eyes. 

This year our daughter Jessica hosted Thanksgiving.  I suppose it was a mixture of our relinquishing and her staking claim.  A little domestic drama had Cora and I in mid pout announcing that we wouldn't be having Thanksgiving this year – Jessica could do it and we weren't sure we would be there.  Our son, always the conciliator managed to get Thanksgiving back on our calendar and somewhere in October it was decided that Jess would host it.  There were a few moments when I wanted to pull it back if for no other reason than the practical one of her only having a single oven in her house.  But of course there was the reason, the glaring reason, the only reason; we've always hosted it.  For 59 years Thanksgiving has always been at one of two places; at my parents’ table or at our own table.  It has never, ever been anywhere else.  This was rather like swallowing a turkey bone.

In an effort to help Jessica as much as possible we made this the potluckiest of all.  Everyone contributed.  Cora and I brought asparagus, stuffing, cranberries and mashed potatoes; Scott, an apricot cheesecake; my sister in law brought drinks; Matt’s in laws brought fruit and Filipino lumpia and Matt baked an apple pie and a pumpkin pie.  Our worry was that with two small children Jessica and husband Kyle would be overwhelmed.  Dinner was planned for 4:30 and I arrived at 2:00 expecting to find a three ring circus of crying kids, yapping dogs and Jess and Kyle scurrying around the house.  I opened the front door.  Not a sound; but there was a wonderful smell.  “Hello? Helllooo?” Still no sound.  Ha, maybe it was too much and they abandoned ship.  I stepped in and Jessica whispered, “The kids are asleep.”  In fact, everyone was asleep.  Kyle was sprawled on the couch and Jess had just lifted her head enough to shush me.  What the hell?  Who sleeps two hours before the Thanksgiving that they’re hosting.  By this time Cora and I are usually frantic.  Panic is as much a Thanksgiving tradition as football.  Isn't it?  Apparently not.  The table was set, looking like a photo in one of those holiday magazines; sweet potatoes were in the slow cooker and the turkey was in the oven filling the home with Thanksgiving warmth.

In keeping with a Thanksgiving tradition, the turkey and the guests obviously had not synchronized their watches.  Dinner was planned for 4:30 but the bird had other ideas.  It was about ready at 3:45.  Kyle turned the oven down to about 200, tented the bird and lived the same angst I’d experienced more times than not.  The bird arrives in its own time and cares not when the guests are due. 

In the end Thanksgiving was a triumph.  The table was a clutter with plates and platters of various savories, prepared with love and in honor of the special day.  The turkey may have been the best I've ever had and the rest of the food provided a tasty accompaniment.  Wine flowed and platters of plenty were passed.  The food was complimented by the sounds of satisfied diners; the clinking of silverware and china and hearty compliments to the various chefs.  The dogs prowled the perimeter of the long table alternately looking up with pleading stares and scouting the floor for fallen treasures.  There were no fussy children this year.  There were no fights over “eat your mashed potatoes” and “the asparagus is good – try it.”  Jessica had the foresight of setting up a table just for them complete with a repast of pigs in blankets.  When Cora checked on the children she was admonished by our oldest granddaughter that they were conducting “private business here.” Dinner was followed by hearty slices of each dessert and more compliments, this time to the bakers. The dinner was done but the eating continued, for who could resist an extra morsel of turkey, another spoonful of stuffing or sliver of pie.  And then a general patting of bellies, moans of stuffed uncomfortable delight and the snores of men sprawled in post feast delirium. 

It’s not certain yet whether or not tradition has ended or just broken for a year.  Maybe we’ll alternate years; one year at our home and one year at Jessica’s.  There is definitely one thing that needs to be fixed in coming years.  The next morning I opened the fridge to find it empty of leftovers.  No turkey wrapped in foil, no potatoes, no gravy, no stuffing, no cranberries.  This was a serious matter that hadn't been considered before relinquishing Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving isn't just a one day feast.  It’s a week of sandwiches; that wonderful small portion of Thanksgiving dinner piled between two slices of white bread.  And what was I looking at?  Six limp lumpia in baggie.