Thanksgiving - Post Mortem

I’ve never met a Thanksgiving I didn’t like a lot.  What’s not to like about a holiday that involves good food and good company without the hassle of hanging decorations, shopping for presents or sending out greeting cards?  When people ask, “How was your Thanksgiving?” what would make you reply, “Bad”? Underdone turkey? Butter-free mashed potatoes? Dressing with some funky ingredient like eel? No pumpkin pie left for breakfast the next morning?

After more than 60 Thanksgivings, it’s natural to compare this year’s model with those of the past.  I know, for example, that this one was not as aromatic as the Thanksgivings of my childhood.  Nana K. always spent the night before Thanksgiving at our house so she and my mom could get an early start.  We woke up, not to the smell of baking pies or rolls but to the smell of sautéing onions and burnt toast for dressing and boiling giblets and gizzards for gravy.  This Thanksgiving also wasn’t as informative as the year my brother hid his tape recorder under the dining room table and recorded every bit of dinner conversation, most of which involved Nana or Aunt Stella or Uncle Al complimenting the sweet potatoes or the gravy or the pumpkin chiffon pie and my mom reciting the recipe.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as boisterous as the numerous holidays we spent with Paul’s extended family – his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins – as many as 30 or 40 of them around one huge table set up downstairs. With that many people, you definitely need two turkeys and can have a turkey carving race (Paul’s idea, of course.) It’s a welcome diversion from football games as long as the pit crew, who are in charge of removing of skin and bones and salvaging dressing, don’t have a run-in with an irrationally exuberant carving knife.  Also, a crowd like that makes for a colossal selection of side dishes and desserts at the buffet table. The only downside is that those at the bottom of the line-up are just rounding third and heading for home when the lead-off hitters are ready for a second at-bat. 

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as exciting as the one 29 years ago when two-day-old John was a late entry to the guest list.  Paul brought us home from the hospital that morning then went to get David who had spent the last two nights with Granny and Pa.  I had read a lot about sibling rivalry and was anxious to make the right first impression.  I fed John, put him to sleep upstairs in the bassinette and waited in the living room so David’s reunion with me wouldn’t be overshadowed by the new baby.  So much for child psychology – David ripped through the front door yelling excitedly, “Where’s that baby?” and raced upstairs to see John, without so much as a glance at me, his mother, aka chopped liver.

This Thanksgiving wasn’t as adventurous as in 1989 when Paul’s parents were in Germany visiting his youngest sister and the in-laws and out-laws came to our house for dinner.  None of us had ever done an entire Thanksgiving dinner but everyone had ideas on how to do some part of it, sort of like the story of the five blind guys and the elephant.  Marie made the cranberry mold and Randy made the mashed potatoes and Carolyn made the gravy and Faith assisted with the turkey carving.  We did it all in our small, narrow kitchen with its limited counter space - authentic family togetherness.

This Thanksgiving wasn't as inspired as the Thanksgiving of 2005, the first one we had hosted in 15 years.  My dad had passed away that summer so this was also the first Thanksgiving my mom had spent with us for some time.  I wanted everything to be perfect so I consulted David and Megan's friend Steve, the TurkeyMeister, on fixing a brined bird. His words of wisdom came down  like Moses's stone tablets from the mountain - well, actually, they came from Washington, D.C. via an email, which I still have in my recipe file.  Among Steve's suggestions: "The first thing you should do is grab a glass, fill it halfway with ice, then pour the glass 3/4ths full with Maker's Mark" and "attack that bird repeatedly with a can of Pam and a hunka-hunka burning attitude." I wondered how much Pam spray to use but, again, Steve was helpful:  "Make like Miss South Carolina with a can of AquaNet and coat that thing."  The meal turned out great, especially the turkey, and my mom has been a welcome and enthusiastic Thanksgiving guest ever since.

In spite of all the things it wasn’t, this Thanksgiving was very, very good.  Now that we have Thanksgiving at our house, everyone in the family contributes something to the meal, which works out okay in a kitchen like mine where you can make seven or eight messes before you have to clean up anything.   John made pumpkin pie and paid homage to the ghost of Julia Child by tossing a whole stick of butter into his mashed potatoes.  Megan garnished her roasted sweet potatoes with lime syrup and chives - a great alternative to marshmallows.  In addition to making pecan pie and cranberry sauce, David took over quality control, nixing new dishes that violated holiday tradition – no mashed root vegetables, no sweet potatoes au gratin, no cherpumple cake.  Fortunately he did approve the gravy from my butcher as I have yet to scale the heights of gravy making.   In addition to arranging the flowers, setting the table and helping me with preparing the turkey and dressing, my mom played the piano which set the mood, although opinions vary as to what kind of a mood her piano playing sets. (See my July post, “The Sound of Music.”) Paul kept us all supplied with homemade bread and homebrew.  All I did was provide the ingredients and act as oven traffic controller.

This year, Willem, at 6 months old, was in bed before the turkey came out of the oven. While he did sample applesauce and sweet potatoes, he found  his shoes more palatable.  Although no one from Paul’s side of the family was in town to join us this year, we enjoyed sharing the holiday and a little Irish whiskey with our good friend Pam’s father.  As with any ideal Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey was cooked perfectly, all the side dishes hit the finish line at about the same time and there was enough pie left for breakfast.  Everyone was in good spirits and good health.  It doesn’t get any better than that.

At this point, I have checked off everything on my Thanksgiving lists.  My refrigerator is recuperating from holiday gridlock which was worse than usual since Paul’s keg of homebrew has taken over 1/3 of my second refrigerator.  John took the left-over shrimp creole and the last two pumpkin Whoopee Pies home to Nashville leaving us with a smattering of dressing, a dab of cranberry sauce and one ziploc bag of turkey that didn’t make it into Saturday night’s pot pie.  My washer and dryer have held up well under 6 loads of sheets, towels and dishcloths.  The baby bed, bathtub, bouncy chair, diapers, wipes and Banana Man (see my September post “Guess Who Came to Dinner”) are all in storage until Christmas.  It’s pretty quiet around here.

Monday, I felt so buoyed by that wonderful Thanksgiving week that I recklessly dipped my toes into the treacherous waters of holiday shopping.  At Macy’s, 30, 40 and 50% off signs lunged at me from all sides.  Even though the store wasn’t full of people, it was so crammed with tables and racks of merchandise that it was just a matter of time before my purse would take out  a Kate Spade plate or a Waterford knickknack. (It’s probably not okay to call something that expensive a knickknack.)  As always, my descent into Buyers’ Paralysis was rapid and irreversible.  At least two dozen sales people offered to help me during my aimless, glassy-eyed slog through the Men’s, Housewares, Bed and Bath and Jewelry (a wrong turn) Departments.  I didn’t stay long and I didn’t cross anything off of my “After Thanksgiving” list . . . yet.