My earliest, fondest memories are these, sitting at my Granny Opal’s round kitchen table, she with a steno pad in her hands, as we solemnly brainstormed the menu for Thanksgiving dinner. 

I might have been four.  And while it may be that I can’t remember being four and at her tables, it is a memory firmly set regardless because it happened every year in my childhood, just this way. 

The menu rarely changed but it was the ritual of taking notes, of planning, of preparing for the family that we loved. I’ve taken it as my job ever since, even though my family isn’t the compact little unit it was when I was a child. Then, it consisted of two grandmothers, my parents, and whatever siblings I had at the time.  Even when it was just my older brother and me, it felt like a party.

Now, I sit with my notepad and try to plan for Thanksgiving and it is hard.  It isn’t even true planning, more like wishful thinking with paper, because we are on the generation four times removed from that 1950s kitchen on Triplett Street.  It is a true party now, when we are all together, although this happens so seldom, it is sad to think of it.  

There are challenges this year. My house is still upside-down, and clearly not ready for company, and my sister has a bum shoulder so she is benched for the duration.  The babies are likely to be no-shows because their dad has to work and their sleep schedules have finally taken hold and their mother isn’t ready to mess that up for a piece of turkey and a slice of pie.

Katie is exhausted, besides, and I suspect the idea of just chilling at home, Thanksgiving just another day, may be more a draw than a fifteen minute meal.  And you know it’s true, all that work, all that planning, and some slob polishes off two plates of food before the hostess has sat down for her first sip of tea. 

Other nieces and nephews are with their families, either the McDonoughs or their in-laws, and that is just fine, too.  We will get together soon enough, for birthdays and Christmas, but it leaves me with a notepad full of doodles instead of grocery lists.  Which is not to say I have been idle.

I cleaned out my freezer and found a turkey, one bought a while ago, and an off-brand at that, but I decided to do a test turkey, using Gordon Ramsay’s promise of the perfect holiday bird. 

As bombastic as he is, he is still a great chef, and he has a sweet Christmas video of preparing at home for the holidays.  I dug in last weekend and tried his bird.  

What a mess.  Let’s start with the bird, frozen too long to be very good, but still.  His process was involved and included draping the bird with bacon and cramming it full of butter and garlic, onion and lemon.  All I can say is, what a waste of good bacon.  It wasn’t bad, just not Thanksgiving.  In his video he makes an interesting cranberry chutney which I am happy to give a go, but I am back to brining my bird in a Gott cooler, and I will not be persuaded otherwise. 

Every year I sprawl, exhausted on my couch, avoiding the mound of dishes in my kitchen, wondering where my leftovers are–oh, yes, still at my sister’s, never to be seen by me again. This year it might not be such a bad thing, a quiet, small Thanksgiving. 

I am not writing Katie and the babies off just yet.  I can imagine she shows up mid-afternoon, knowing something is going on without her.  That would be fine.  No fuss, no expectation, babies in their everyday duds, pie and dressing and mashed potatoes all in a jumble for her partaking.  And if not, well, then, an excuse to see the babies, anyway, as we fight over who takes them food. 

I have had quiet Thanksgivings before.  I always pout about it.  But then, something magical happens.  The day arrives in serenity and quiet.  The afternoon unfolds with naps and pie, and naps again.  We can hear ourselves think.  We can hear each other talk. And the dishes practically wash themselves. This, too, a reason to give thanks.