My daughter Rachel approached me rather timidly. “Mom, can I ask you something?” Would you be okay with Steve and I making Thanksgiving dinner this year?”
It took me half a nanosecond to think about it as I tried to restrain myself from leaping into a full-blown arabesque.
“Not only would I be okay,” I sincerely replied. “I’d be thrilled! Just let me know what you want me to bring.” I didn’t ask her if she had any idea what she had just volunteered to do. I was afraid she’d change her mind. That evening as we all were gathered at my daughter Katie’s house to share a pot of chili and play with the grandchildren, we fondly remembered the past 34 family Thanksgivings where I had presided over the kitchen, whether I wanted to or not.
Rachel recalled the pivotal mother-daughter bonding time she and I had one afternoon while making homemade cranberry sauce. At age 11, Rachel was going through that miserable “tween” stage, but as she stirred sugar into fresh cranberries, she got over herself and became human again. Never mind that no one, including Rachel, liked the cranberry sauce. Her sister Katie pronounced that it tasted like earwax and went to the pantry to look for a can of Ocean Spray. The rest of us continued to eat, wondering why Katie knew what earwax tasted like.
The oven was kaput
Then there was the Thanksgiving eve when the oven broke. I couldn’t figure out why the scalloped corn casserole I was transporting to the church potluck was still not bubbling after the obligatory 30 minutes. Hmmmmm … perhaps it was because the bottom coil was kaput. I had used the oven’s last hurrah to bake the pies. Between my daughter Stephanie’s rather small apartment oven located two blocks away, the microwave and the toaster oven, our family still had our turkey dinner. The logistics just made it more interesting. We all took turns running over to baste the thing so we could have a sniff, and when it came to hauling the steaming 23-pound bird out of the oven and getting it safely to its carving station in my dining room, it was good to have a couple strong men handy.
Another distinct memory involves butter. I had just put the finishing touches on the table and run upstairs to change my clothes. I was out of the room for five minutes tops. When I returned to stir the gravy and light the candles, the butter was missing from the dining room table.
“I must be losing my mind,” I thought to myself. “I’m sure I put out butter.” I examined the crystal dish which was as clean as a whistle, then got the stick of butter I had obviously not put out. Next, I thought I’d let our little cockapoo out one last time before we sat down to eat, yet when I called him, he was not forthcoming. Unwilling to wait for his ceremonial bowl of turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes, he was far too busy enjoying the butter appetizer he’d swiped off the middle of our Thanksgiving table, hence earning him the nickname of “Butterboy.”
A seasoned hostess’s tips
There are many other memories, but I’d also like to say I’ve learned a lot over the years: There must always be sausage in the stuffing. There must be green bean casserole even though no one really eats it, and black olives always need to be on the relish tray. The cheese ball and crackers should be kept up on a high surface. (It turns out Bosco liked cheese just as much as he liked butter.) Never try new recipes. Along with the pumpkin, apple and pecan pies, there must also be cherry pie.
I learned to always invest in a disposable foil roasting pan and to make sure a 27-pound turkey would fit in the oven. Turkeys always go on sale the day after I purchase mine. The likelihood of guests noticing my pie crusts and rolls aren’t made from “scratch” is minimal. Gravy can be made ahead of time or purchased at the local gourmet shop. I now take the day before Thanksgiving as a vacation day, and I don’t force myself to go Christmas shopping on Friday.
Lastly, I have learned that when someone else offers to prepare any meal, whether it be Thanksgiving dinner or otherwise, to say yes.
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