Thanksgiving
For the past few years, I have been in Chaing Mai for Thanksgiving and have eaten at a little bakery that celebrates the day in what they must have seen on a Hallmark card or movie. There is turkey, beef, pork stuffing, sweet potatoes, green beans, and wonderful deserts.
In my memory bank, I have several eras of the day with family and several variations of the day after there was no family home. The later was usually with friends or family of friends or people who thought I should not be eating alone and invited me to their home even though I did not know anyone and some of the folks kept asking “who is she again” as if the family were the losing ticket at a homeless shelter raffle.
In the days when there were at least a few family members at the table that were blood relatives, this day and Christmas was rather similar. Whoever the cook was, except when it was my father, looked like they were candidates on a beat the clock show. There was always something that was forgotten… the stuffing in the turkey, the raw potatoes on the back counter, and if I was lucky, the green beans that either had bacon, or little onions, or crispy onions on top etc. Whatever the presentation, not my favorite. When I was very young, my grandmother was the cook who was also doing pies, and rolls, and something for the meal after the meal. She had a “bad ticker” and often had to take a sit-down break to get calm. When my aunt cooked, everything had a dash of lemon since Women’s Day said it added flavor. Unfortunately, the same flavor to everything.
When my father cooked, and he was a very good cook by feel i.e. no receipt you cleared the kitchen, my Mom fetched whatever he needed, and he whistled. The stuffing was never the same but usually had sausage, onions celery and his “special secret” (poultry seasoning) never giblets. Everyone knew that if I did not see the bag of inners in the trash, I was not sitting at the table.
When my grandfather was alive, no one spoke (except me) unless a conversation was encouraged by grandpa. I did not see him the way others did, so I would just babble and ask questions and wonder why just grandpa and I were having a conversation. Never alcohol and when the meal was over, everyone was busy in the kitchen with the take-home bags for those in attendance. Several relatives just dropped in for dessert since they had another family to go to, or just could not take the times of silence when I was eating. When the meal was over, I found a corner and went to sleep.
When I was in my teens and my father’s family was not alive, we would drive to Toledo and my mother’s brother Medard’s farm where I was greeted by aunt Gertrude’s wet kiss on the cheek. She made hustle, bustle, and anxiety an art form. No one said she had “ticker” trouble, she just would get red in the face and run back and forth between the kitchen and stove etc. as the chicken with the head off (she also butchered and plucked the chickens). I think I was at the “kids” table until I was twenty. That was ok, my second cousins were also there, and I did get to know them for at least a weekend occasionally.
When not invited as an orphan to someone’s house, after there was no even remote family, I occasionally helped at a food kitchen or went to an Indian restaurant. Indian places are open on most holidays reserved for family dinners. Jim, the housemate, and I have gone on Christmas and New Year’s Indian when he did not get an invite to a friend’s home. Many times, we were the only ones there. That dinner had nothing forgotten, no hustle bustle and I did not pray the meal to be over soon. In the end, I went home to no dishes and no real memories of family, chaos and all.
