Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

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No Holiday Prep Here–And It’s Divine

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Any other year I would have purchased my turkey by now.  Would have fretted over it, the size, the brand, frozen or fresh?  Would have wondered if you had already beat me to the best turkeys, the most favored size.  Too small and you run out, too big and risk setting the oven of fire, which I did, three years ago.

The canned pumpkin would have been bought, also my favorite pecans, possibly the yams.  There would be a notation in my calendar indicating what date to buy bread so it can get properly stale.  One year I bought my bread too early, thinking, stale bread is stale bread.  No, my friends, it is not. 

On these errands I would be thinking of how I drove my grandmother around to gather all the staples for Thanksgiving.  The bread from the discount bread place.  Celery from Wetzel’s.  Maybe the turkey from there, too. 

This year, I will prepare pies, and only pies.  And even that isn’t a requirement, but a suggestion if I feel like it. 

For the first time in decades, decades, I tell you, I am not fixing a turkey, nor dressing, nor yams nor cranberries, nor nuthin’. Except maybe those pies. 

When my brother-in-law’s daughter floated the idea of hosting Thanksgiving at theirs, he laughed and said, well,  good luck getting Kathy and Greta to let loose of doing the dinner. He honestly thinks we enjoy it. And now I wonder if my Granny Opal loved all the preparation and work as much as I assumed she did. 

Kathy and I jumped, or would have if either of us were able, at the idea of showing up, eating, and going home.  That we had to drive to do it, a nice little hour and half jaunt through Indiana, well, that was even better.  An adventure, an “over the river and through the woods” sort of thing.  

It must be said, I pride myself on doing the Thanksgiving food, but I have grown weary of it.  Kathy, less enamored with cooking than I, prides herself on her house, big enough for us all and comfortable, well-appointed with centerpieces and decoration that have required thought and artistic expression. 

She can cook, but the aggravation of preparing the meal while trying to feed kids who mess up the kitchen and get in her way, well, it’s been a nice set up.  I cook, she cleans and decorates, and the kids, if they can be bothered, drag out to my car to help carry in the bird, the dressing and various pots and pans full of food.

But this year.  This year!  We have accepted Mandi and Chuck’s kind offer and we will turn up on the day to feast and feast and feast some more. Spend the night if we want.  Spend two.

Here is the other thing.  We will not even have Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving.  We will gather on Friday to accommodate a couple of conflicting schedules, and that is just fine, too. 

Never did my family do this.  There wasn’t a pressing need, really, but even if there might have been, my mother was not one to flex.  

We were lucky as a family that we all lived close enough to see each other often, so it didn’t seem a tragedy if a few were missing from the table. We would see them on Saturday. 

But nor did my mother guilt my married siblings when they spent a holiday with the in-laws.  She insisted they do, sometimes, if a set of parents were aging and and she felt like she would have years with her children they would not. It was a kind and thoughtful gesture in her matter-of-fact way. 

Although I worry sometimes we blow off too many family obligations–any kind of obligation–these days.  Attending the funeral, choosing skiing over the holiday with family.  Just not showing up, however that may look.  This new bunch of people we have about us — notorious for not showing up.  The ones aggrieved at going to the office three days a week–how cruel! Never mind an entire workweek. 

But this year, I see how this easing of tradition has suited me just fine.  Better than fine. I see how it reduces stress for my niece and her husband with the three little ones.  They can be with his family on Thursday, all relaxed and happy.  Then with us, in Indiana, also relaxed and happy. 

How surprisingly easy it has been to let some things go. 

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Thanksgiving, My Way

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The week has arrived, the time I can see my sweet family gathered around the groaning table, all sharp angled elbows and knees, girls in stiff blonde pigtails and patterned dresses, little boys with freckles and gap-toothed grins, as we admire the golden bird, mama in her cocktail apron and papa in a suit, a suit, mind you, big smiles all around, for Thanksgiving is HERE!


Someone ought to smack Norman Rockwell in the face.

No one’s Thanksgiving looks like that.


I have gone from nostalgic, warm-hearted, expectant, aggravated, downright mad, exhausted, and back again. I am hosting and the list of things to do has been long, with incessant trips to the grocery, the hardware store, the on-line stores, and still I realize I have nary a decorative pumpkin to grace the dining table.


And right about now, I don’t care.


My sister sets an impossibly high standard with her home decor. Her house would be festooned with tiny pumpkins, exquisite turkey figurines, and other things I can’t name but find beautiful…the first five minutes I am there. Then the babies arrive, and I intend to hog them, and nephews and nieces arrive, and I want to hog them, too, but they are adults now and they no longer get the appeal of putting fat cardboard puzzles together.


So, my lovely guests will only have the struggling amaryllis on the counter to gaze upon. But the little ones will know right where to find the toys, and will make a beeline for them. From where I sit right this minute I spy two toy trucks, purposely placed by my nephew, Cy, “charging,” just like the Roomba he is obsessed with. I debate moving them. He will look for them as soon as he hits the door.


There has been more to pulling the house together than I anticipated. Fortunately, I have my pal, Ruth, who was here two days in a row and worked me like a dog. She worked, too, and honestly, I would be in a weeping, wobbly mess right now if it hadn’t been for her. She should be around my table on Thursday, too, come to think of it, so grateful am I for her help and friendship.


As I write this I am in the early stages of making Chef Jean Pierre’s turkey gravy. It will take hours. But gravy is my spirit animal and I could eat it with a spoon, and have. That I can make it early and reheat it on Thanksgiving with no ill effects, well. I’m pretty grateful for him, too.
Early this morning and driving to get the last of my cooking supplies, I worked myself up into a right state. So put upon, so taken for granted, what was I thinking? But then a checkout person was kind and helpful, and I felt–begrudgingly–my mood lift a bit. Still not done with it I called an old childhood friend, and she finished lifting my mood the rest of the way.


In my snit it occurred to me I might ask for help from my dear hearts. What a concept. They are not mind-readers, after all, and then I thought of my Granny Opal, a widow who didn’t drive, spending a solid week preparing for our Thanksgivings. I always helped in the kitchen the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but that was about it. Her table would already be set, the house warm and inviting. I honestly used to think she loved preparing for us, all of it, the cooking, the cleaning. But, did she? Who knows? I am sure no one ever asked her.


So, I sent out the word: I need someone to bring me two large bags of ice. Go get the dishes and silverware from Kathy and bring them over here. Here is what I will have around here to drink, feel free to bring whatever libation you might enjoy. Come early if you want, and I would love that. Appetizers at one. We will eat at two.


Watch out for Cy’s trucks tucked under end tables. And please leave them alone. They’re charging.

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All the Pies

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The first pecan pie I ever made was a masterpiece, golden brown with a slightly jiggly center, the perfect ecru crust, the oohs and aahs from my family who had only seen such a thing in the glossy pages of “Southern Living.”  

And now, here in the intimacy of our own home, a Thanksgiving to remember, because of my pie.  Smug in what was clearly an undiscovered talent, a gift, really, I committed to making pecan pie again for the next Thanksgiving.  I followed the same recipe, used the same bowls, the same pie crust, pie pan, the same oven.  

Total fail. 

Times two, for I had doubled the recipe because everyone would want seconds, and some no doubt, thirds.  It was a widening gyre moment; the center did not hold.  I baked them for what seemed like hours, coaxing the things to set up while the pecans turned golden, then mahogany, then some brown not found in nature.  The crust begged for mercy and still the filling was a molten runny mess.

I did my best to rescue it, served it up in sweet little compotes, whipped cream hiding most of the sins.  Every pie from then on out was an equal, or even more, magnificent failure. 

Until the day my friend, Marianne, shared her grandmother’s recipe.  No fail, she said.  Use an electric oven, an gas oven, or a wood burning stove.  It doesn’t matter.  You will never cry over the wasted life of a pecan again. 

It starts with the recipe on the back of the dark Karo syrup bottle.  There is a secret ingredient, but I can’t give it to you.  But even without the substitution, it is the perfect pecan pie. 

I suspect the secret ingredient was less about creativity in the kitchen and more an issue of having run out of something, but regardless, it is a simple recipe which will never disappoint.

You can find fancier pecan pie recipes, the highfalutin’ ones that use brown butter, honey, maple syrup and maple sugar–who ever heard of maple sugar?  I am assured by the YouTube pie-maker it is a thing, but expensive and hard to find, so, really, just use regular brown sugar, she said, and I think she was just showing off.

No, I say, once a year, all that Karo syrup won’t hurt you.  And I honor Marianne, and her mother, Haroldine, and those grandmothers and aunts I never met.  As if I have invited East Tennessee to my Kentucky table. 

My mother’s pumpkin pie was legend and she, too, used the recipe on the back of the can. 

That can being, Libby’s pumpkin. In all the taste tests Libby’s pumpkin comes out on top and for a good reason.  It is made from a variety of the Dickinson pumpkin. Libby’s own the strain of Dickinson pumpkin and no one but they can get their hands on the seeds. 

Sometimes it is called the Dickinson squash and that is how all the rumors get started.  But, no, my dear ones, it is a pumpkin and that is all there is to it.  I suppose we could spend an evening debating the exact moment a squash becomes a pumpkin or a pumpkin becomes a squash, but what a dull evening that would be. 

Just get a can of Libby’s, a can of evaporated milk, spices, and go to town.  

Martha Stewart provides the pie crust, which I slowly master, and the bottles of corn syrup and cans of pumpkin do the rest. I may fiddle with the cranberry relish but the pies must never change.  Not on Thanksgiving.  Rainy Sunday afternoons are meant for experimenting in the kitchen.  Then, just about anything goes. 

But those pies are my mother, my friend and her people, whom I think I surely know, because Marianne is a storyteller and her family stories are as familiar as some of my own. My nieces and nephews will eat the pies and praise my efforts. They won’t know the many hands sifting, stirring, measuring spices, making do in a pinch, hands  that bring them traditions the will mistake as ours, alone.

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Thanksgiving, now

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A year ago I sat in my quiet house, admired the clean and uncluttered surfaces of my kitchen and pouted a little, even so, because I wasn’t in charge of Thanksgiving, wasn’t roasting the bird, wasn’t making the dressing or the elaborate and time-consuming cranberry salad.

For the first time since college I was spending Thanksgiving off, traveling to Louisville to be a guest of my niece and her fella, spending a couple of days with them, my brother and sister-in-law, my nephew, Dillion, and the dog.

Alex was solicitous when she showed me to my room that Wednesday.  Did I have enough covers?  Was the lamp bright enough to read by?  And, look.  Dan ran out and got a nightlight for the hall, the steps being steep and the light switch hard to find.

After morning coffee there wasn’t much for me to do.  She settled me into the sofa and turned on Netflix to a show she thought I might  enjoy.  It was a little like being a toddler. 

The day went without a hitch.  The food was great, Dan’s family delightful, and really, except for the dog dragging the turkey carcass into the living room after dessert, all  was perfect.

I had to admit, it was nice being a guest, getting fussed over a little, and contributing next to nothing but doing the dishes.  And even that was less about being helpful than it was about avoiding  the traditional Thanksgiving hike Dan’s family seemed so enamored of.

I was invited to return to Louisville this year but I will stay put, back in the business of roasting the bird and doing the dressing.  I’ll celebrate with my sister and her family, a smaller gathering than in years past, but one I am pleased about, one I am looking forward to.

It has been a year of change and adjustment, a year of fits and starts, with connections and separations that come to all families as children grow up, parents and grandparents leave you, and work and life rub blisters here, create opportunities there.  Everything in flux, up in the air, eventually falling back to earth in configurations you don’t always recognize or understand.

But this is nothing new. Life moves.  And we move with it.   It expands and contracts and veers off to the left, and here we go, eyes wide open or squeezed shut, but at least one hand still wrapped around the reins.  The stirrups may be flapping wildly, our hats have come off, but we don’t let go.

I’ve sent Alex the family dressing and egg nog recipes as she has asked.  But I called her, too, because I need to explain things, make sure I tell her what Granny Opal told me when she guided my hands all those Thanksgivings ago.  There is the recipe and there is the process. This is what I tell myself Alex needs to know.

How  fine to chop the onions, how many eggs to loaves of stale bread.  Time and temperature. The production that is making egg nog, whisking whites, long enough but not too long, how to judge when to stop. She can look all of this up, of course, can find better recipes on-line, perhaps, find more sophisticated ways of doing things.  But that is to miss the point.

What I mean is this. I want to instruct her as I was instructed, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen.   I want Alex to be there, too. I want her to have more than just a spattered index card.  I want her dressing in Louisville to join in concentric circles my dressing in Owensboro, and Granny Opal’s from 1948.  I want her Thanksgiving table to join with ours, and the tables of our grandmothers, and their mothers’ tables, ones laid in distant dining rooms we would not recognize, but belonging to us, all the same.

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Thanksgiving 2016

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For the first time since my college days, I will be traveling for Thanksgiving.  I won’t be gone for long and I won’t go far, but far enough.

From the time I was barely able to see over the rim of my grandmother’s kitchen table, Thanksgiving has been mine.  First, mine and my Granny Opal’s, and then, when she left us, mine alone. I spent every Wednesday before the day with her, helping her, spending the night so I could rise early when she put the bird in the oven. 

It is hard to imagine how much help I was at four, five, or six, but my grandmother would sit at her formica table, reviewing pages of notes on her steno pad, and discuss with me the timing of things—when to peel the potatoes, when to wash the cranberries, when to assemble the pies. I had opinions on these matters. We negotiated.

The last thing I asked before sleep was to be awakened to help put the bird in the oven,  always received the promise that she would comply. I awoke to the aroma of roasting turkey, never too disappointed with the turn of events, because there was still plenty to do.  I was convinced at a tender age that I was the linchpin to our successful celebrations, and I still think so, even though our family is diminished and far-flung this year.

Even though I won’t be making the turkey, the cranberry salad, the gravy.

I will, however, be in charge of dressing. I have my shopping list compiled and at the ready, for I have committed to bringing everything we will need for the dish that has graced our family’s table, going back to the last century, and maybe beyond.

It is the one thing my niece, Alex, has asked that I prepare. She will be hosting her family and her fellow’s family in Louisiville this year, a celebration of her new home, her new job, a new life starting out.  I am included, too, and could I help out with the dressing?

My contribution to Thanksgiving has been reduced to this, dressing, and I have attacked it with a battle plan worthy of a White House State dinner.  I assured her I would bring every thing we will need.  The stale bread,  onion and celery, but also butter, chicken stock, and just in case, the eggs.

I do not trust her to have eggs.

It is her first Thanksgiving, after all, and we all know how hard it is to have everything you need on hand.  Or perhaps I am motivated by something else.

Perhaps the dressing must be all mine, my contribution, my small but perfect gift to the Thanksgiving table. 

This new Thanksgiving table, in this new millennium with this new family configured from remnants of several old ones.

Tonight I will sit at an unfamiliar kitchen table, chopping onions with Alex. She has been working on Thanksgiving dinner for days…thinking, planning, shopping, and thinking some more.  I am sure she will have questions.  I hope she will have questions. 

I’m bringing some other things she might need, a meat thermometer, coffee, extra aluminum foil.   I won’t foist these things on her, but will have them waiting, just in case, my version of promising to wake her up for the turkey but letting her sleep a bit more.

I am proud of this young woman, proud to be her aunt.  I can’t wait to see her life unfold, and to be a part of it.  And, if I am honest, I am grateful for the invitation for Thanksgiving, grateful to only have dressing to prepare.  I am thankful for a sense of peace and acceptance as tradition passes from aging hands to new ones.