The Last Thanksgiving

12109

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. That’s one thing I got from my mom. Every year it’s at our house. The whole family comes over. Everyone brings a dish. It’s lovely.

My Gramma Hildreth used to make the turkey (and gravy). Her and my grampa would bring it over in the trunk of their car. Those were the days! My brother started doing the turkey a few years ago. It’s a very serious matter.

The past few years have been pretty temperamental. The first year my mom was diagnosed with cancer, we celebrated Thanksgiving at my aunt’s house (let’s just say, it felt nothing like Thanksgiving). Last year we celebrated at my Grandma Reiter’s house (it was nice, but not the same). My Gramma Hildreth wasn’t present either of these years, which didn’t feel right.

Generally, my brother always makes the cranberry relish. My dad manages the beverage side of things. But my mom always does the most. She makes the mashed potatoes, whipped to an airy perfection; good old fashioned traditional stuffing; and scrum-dittily-umptious pumpkin pies with freshly whipped cream. She also cleans the whole house, decorates, and makes-up the table settings. As for me… once my love for cooking blossomed, I began contributing a dish to the feast. And the past few years I’ve sort of taken over the decorating and table settings.

This year, it was the Rich and Ashley show.

First, I cleaned the house (my dad helped) over the course of a few days (to lessen the blow). Come Wednesday, I made my first pumpkin pies ever––under my mom’s direction. It was… stressful. I cried.

I’ve never made pie in my life. Pie is my mom’s thing. And crust is, well, an art form. My mom was trying to guide me, but she was so fatigued and fuzzy in the head. She told me to use only about half the amount of water her recipe calls for. Well great. So I’m rolling out the dough and I go to flip it over and the whole thing just falls apart. Ahhh! The clock was ticking. I was sweating. My brain was twisting in knots. How could I have never made pie with Mom before? We’re not going to have homemade pumpkin pie tomorrow. I Failed! G-d Damn It! This Isn’t Fair! WHY MY MOM?! Why?

I’ve never had any regrets, but not making pie with Mom might be the first. Then again, I suppose this time counted. She was here, guiding me as best she could through my first pie-making experience. She witnessed me making them, smelled them baking in the oven, saw them once they were finished and even got to try a small sliver (with my freshly whipped cream). She glowed with delight and approval. “Those are beautiful, Na!” she said. That makes me happy.

Once pies were done and the evening slowed to a calm lull, I began arranging and dressing the tables. This part I love.

Out comes Mom’s Wedgewood Kutani Crane China and crystal Gorham goblets. Our silver flatware from the darkly lacquered wood box lined with burgundy velvet. Cloth napkins and napkin rings. Silver antique salt and pepper shakers. Fancy crystal candleholders. I am in my own world. Ultra relaxed. Listening to Jamie Cullum. This is peace.

Thursday morning: Doddle a bit.

Eleven o’clock: begin prepping food. Some family stops by for a brief visit, as they won’t be joining us for dinner this year. Continue prepping.

Two-thirty: Sage-infused buttered turkey stuffed with aromatics goes into the oven for a searing. Continue preparing side dishes. Turn oven down.

Three o’clock: out of town family arrives. My Grandma Reiter is coming at four. (I hear my good friend, Stress, knocking on the door).

Four- thirty: People will be arriving at 5:00. No time for a Turkey-Day trot for me. Head for the showers and…Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong? Oh, wonderful. One of my aunt’s is here with her husband.

Why even bother telling people what time to come over when they just come whenever they like?

Five-thirty: I’m ready. Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Continue working in the kitchen. Set up the food, buffet style. Try to keep people out of the kitchen.

Six o’clock: our dinner time goal comes and goes. Whatever. It’s gonna be worth the wait.

Seven o’clock: dinner bell!

Everyone sits where they’d like. I’ve never, that I can remember, sat next to my parents. Kids usually end up clustered at one end of the table or at their own table altogether. This year, I got to sit with my parents and my brother. That meant a lot. A simple prayer was said. And then… Bon Appetite!

I decided to make a toast. And then Rich. And boy, was his a toast. Tears were rolling. And then they wouldn’t stop. And then my dad gave a toast. And the tears were streaming… Everyone was choked up. Crying. Sniffling. Wiping eyes and noses. Wow. It was something. Definitely not your typical Thanksgiving. It was going to be the last of its kind. And we all new that.