Turkey Day

~ from Jill

This year we did something different for Thanksgiving; we went out. In the past, I’ve had Thanksgivings at my mother’s house with glass pitchers of Apricot Nectar, oven-roasted turkey, home made stuffing, whole cranberry relish, sour-cream mashed potatoes, and pumpkin soufflé – not to mention bubbling hot crab and artichoke dip. The house would be full of family and friends. She made her table larger with an extra sheath, and whoever sat at the east end would start to fall if they leaned too far back (there was a step leading to the family room right behind them). I remember dating Steve and seating him in that chair, and his surprise as he started to fall in his all blue-denim outfit (always the snazzy dresser). My stepfather would patiently wash the dishes in the kitchen afterward, and make everyone steaming cups of mocha. James Taylor would be on the CD Player, and you were free to pull up an afghan and curl up with a book to read.

I had Thanksgivings at my father’s house with traditional foods like creamed corn, and pretzel-jello salad. My stepmother set the table with scripted china dishes, cutwork glasses and silverware – the first year Steve and I dated he blurted out, “This is the prettiest set table I’ve ever seen.” After the pumpkin pie with real whipped cream, we would play charades and cards, sometimes making my father laugh until he cried.

There have been harder years as well. One Thanksgiving I had boardwalk fries with my father in Santa Cruz, the year my parents separated, and also, with a girlfriend of his whose food we detested, (I think we ran out for fast-food afterwards). Her dachsund dogs (there seemed to be dozen) jumped on our legs and yipped for the food on our plates.

There was a time at my mother’s when she invited a new friend who made game hens, and then served each of us a plate with one face-down on it, like a little grave. We took turns running out to the front yard and scraping the things into the garbage (which bothered her greatly when she found out).

One year she made big, sticky, scab-like things (candied yams), but couldn’t get any of us to try them. She also made a chocolate soufflé that never rose .. twice. I think someone who takes as many culinary risks as she does is entitled to have a few small disasters.

Every Thanksgiving has been different, and like slides in a box, I have each one stacked clearly in my mind. There have been years as comforting to me as hot peppermint tea, and years when things felt discombobulated. I realized some time ago, that I didn’t need to depend on something traditional happening every year of my life, that the surprises, even mistakes, make things more interesting, more alive.

I watched my 7-year old get a pat on the head from the waitress at the Golden Corral. How sweet, I thought, until I realized he had lifted a full plate of rice to his head and was eating it like a puppy. I glanced toward the end of the table and saw my older son with a plate of nachos, steak, and globs of different colored jellos polka-dotting the edges. It was, again, different, but satisfying. To be with family and friends, and to wonder what might happen.