When I was little, Thanksgiving was just a puzzle to me. The day would be just misery from beginning to end, and yet every year it came around with the certainty of New England's icy winds, barren trees, and frozen ground.
Each November, family ties would propel us unpredictably to different houses. I realize now this is because my mother hated anything to do with cooking, caregiving, or tradition, and much preferred sitting on the couch waiting for multiple martinis to come her way. When I was a toddler, she would fish the gin-soaked olives out of her glass and give them to me. She always said, “olives take up too much room in the glass.”
My father’s parents had divorced and each had remarried, so there were two sets of grandparents on his side. My mother’s mother was dead, and her father had remarried – yet inexplicably he had given away his only daughter to a family of maiden aunts to raise. This meant that on her side there was one set of grandparents, plus three delightful “maiden ladies” - spinster sisters who had agreed to raise my mother as their own.
I thought everyone had nine grandparents, many of whom detested each other and could not be in the same room at the same time. The divorce between my father’s parents had been hideous, and tensions were aroused during the holidays. I could sense the hostility like molten lava just beneath the surface. These people did not “forgive and forget.” They carried grudges. They cherished them, and polished them lovingly for years. Once you were on their bad side, you were finished for life - as inevitably happened to me.
Thanksgiving was an opportune time for different old people to see the grandchildren for one day. After their turn was over, we might not see them again for years. We were not what you’d call a tight family.
My brothers and I would be on our best behavior, stiff and silent. Booze would be served immediately. Eventually a turkey with stuffing would appear, along with green beans made with Campbell’s mushroom soup and canned onion rings on top. Mashed potatoes with gravy from a bottle and some commercial cranberry sauce would round out the meal. The food was fabulously better than my mother’s cooking, so we would stuff ourselves silly while the adults drank and argued about the best way to carve a turkey. Some forced conversation would follow, then a pie that came from a box, and ultimately we would go back home and be released into our separate rooms. My mother, of course, would take to her bed. I simply could not imagine why families would repeatedly put themselves through this torture. No one was thankful for anything, and Thanksgiving made no sense.
I am in awe of large, happy families with giant family gatherings. I had two older brothers, and two first cousins. That was it. Since we were all different ages and had little in common, there was no interaction. I remember playing Pick-Up Sticks on the rug by myself for what seemed like hours while the adults drank.
One year my mother was forced to hold Thanksgiving at our house. She thought she would be clever and serve canned spaghetti. She loved to thumb her nose at tradition, as if she were above any plebeian customs. Let me assure you that canned spaghetti was not witty, or bohemian, or avant garde in any way. It was cold and disgusting.
Each November, family ties would propel us unpredictably to different houses. I realize now this is because my mother hated anything to do with cooking, caregiving, or tradition, and much preferred sitting on the couch waiting for multiple martinis to come her way. When I was a toddler, she would fish the gin-soaked olives out of her glass and give them to me. She always said, “olives take up too much room in the glass.”
My father’s parents had divorced and each had remarried, so there were two sets of grandparents on his side. My mother’s mother was dead, and her father had remarried – yet inexplicably he had given away his only daughter to a family of maiden aunts to raise. This meant that on her side there was one set of grandparents, plus three delightful “maiden ladies” - spinster sisters who had agreed to raise my mother as their own.
I thought everyone had nine grandparents, many of whom detested each other and could not be in the same room at the same time. The divorce between my father’s parents had been hideous, and tensions were aroused during the holidays. I could sense the hostility like molten lava just beneath the surface. These people did not “forgive and forget.” They carried grudges. They cherished them, and polished them lovingly for years. Once you were on their bad side, you were finished for life - as inevitably happened to me.
Thanksgiving was an opportune time for different old people to see the grandchildren for one day. After their turn was over, we might not see them again for years. We were not what you’d call a tight family.
My brothers and I would be on our best behavior, stiff and silent. Booze would be served immediately. Eventually a turkey with stuffing would appear, along with green beans made with Campbell’s mushroom soup and canned onion rings on top. Mashed potatoes with gravy from a bottle and some commercial cranberry sauce would round out the meal. The food was fabulously better than my mother’s cooking, so we would stuff ourselves silly while the adults drank and argued about the best way to carve a turkey. Some forced conversation would follow, then a pie that came from a box, and ultimately we would go back home and be released into our separate rooms. My mother, of course, would take to her bed. I simply could not imagine why families would repeatedly put themselves through this torture. No one was thankful for anything, and Thanksgiving made no sense.
I am in awe of large, happy families with giant family gatherings. I had two older brothers, and two first cousins. That was it. Since we were all different ages and had little in common, there was no interaction. I remember playing Pick-Up Sticks on the rug by myself for what seemed like hours while the adults drank.
One year my mother was forced to hold Thanksgiving at our house. She thought she would be clever and serve canned spaghetti. She loved to thumb her nose at tradition, as if she were above any plebeian customs. Let me assure you that canned spaghetti was not witty, or bohemian, or avant garde in any way. It was cold and disgusting.
By the time I went to college, I was released from the tedious cycle of Thanksgiving. After I got married and my husband and I were penniless freelancers, we would often work right through the holiday, enjoying the quiet solitude.
But then we had kids.
I taught myself how to cook, and bake, and make piecrust. I read up on Thanksgiving traditions and recipes in magazines like Woman’s Day and Good Housekeeping. I cooked my first turkey upside down, but no matter – apparently some chefs do so on purpose!
We developed a little family routine in which we would wake up early to chop the onions and celery for the Pepperidge Farm stuffing, and slather the turkey in butter before getting it into the oven. With the kids, we would roll out floury pie crust on the kitchen counter, and mix the canned pumpkin and eggs and evaporated milk and sugar for pumpkin pie, stopping to smell each spice – sweet cinnamon, tart ginger, and exotic cloves – before tossing it into the bowl.
We would snap the ends off fresh green beans, then steam them with a touch of sugar, toss them in butter and - unless we forgot - throw crunchy almonds on top. We would mash red potatoes so the flecks of satiny skin would peek out of each whipped white spoonful. We would boil the cut yams and puree them with orange juice, then bake them in the oven with a sweet crust of nuts and brown sugar. We would make dough and watch it rise, then cook dinner rolls and hide pats of melting yellow butter inside each one. Tongue in cheek, we would open a can of Ocean Spray Cranberry Jelly and put it on a plate completely intact, cutting off a few rounds so they looked like sliced beets.
Finally the turkey would come out of the oven, and we would make deliciously lumpy gravy with the scrapings left in the bottom of the roasting pan. The meal would take as long as necessary to prepare, and when everything was ready, we would sit down, just the four of us, and hold hands and thank God for this marvelous feast and this marvelous day and the miracle of being alive and together.
Unfortunately, it was about this time my mother decided that Thanksgiving was absolutely vital to her after all. My brother refused to see her, so I generally took pity on the aged parents and invited them to our house, where they would proceed to wreak havoc. My mother would bring her own gin in a thermos and arrive drunk and ready to criticize, belittle, scorn, deride, and disparage. She is a bona fide genius at sucking the joy out of any occasion.
Once my little son looked out the front window, saw their car pulling up, and said, “Uh oh… more sadness.”
Once my daughter came over to me and whispered, “Mom, what should I do? Gamma is cheating at checkers!” Who cheats a little child at checkers?
Once my mother sat down and an army of deer ticks proceeded to exit from her clothes onto my couch. I was incensed. She had made my father stop the car somewhere random so she could sit in the grass and drink, meanwhile collecting hundreds of ticks to pass along to my children - along with Lyme Disease, Babesiosis, Ehrlichiosis, Anaplasmosis, and all the other tick-borne diseases. She played the abused victim to the hilt. “All we did was stop for a picnic on the way,” she said innocently. What was wrong with ME?
Last week we held a special early Thanksgiving celebration for my parents, who are now aged 92 and 94. My brother flew in from Latvia for the occasion. Many people went to a great deal of effort to make the day a success for these two people in deep old age who are incontinent, wheelchair-bound, and half-senile. My father smiled at his end of the table, unable to speak, but his eyes still expressive. My mother sat at her end of the table, looking down at her plate. She never smiled, never spoke, never expressed gratitude for anything, and, after being served two kinds of pie, went immediately to bed.
That afternoon she called me. She wants ANOTHER Thanksgiving. Why won’t I come over this Thursday?
Please share your Thanksgiving memories in the comments below. I am eager to hear them!
11/26/2013
But then we had kids.
I taught myself how to cook, and bake, and make piecrust. I read up on Thanksgiving traditions and recipes in magazines like Woman’s Day and Good Housekeeping. I cooked my first turkey upside down, but no matter – apparently some chefs do so on purpose!
We developed a little family routine in which we would wake up early to chop the onions and celery for the Pepperidge Farm stuffing, and slather the turkey in butter before getting it into the oven. With the kids, we would roll out floury pie crust on the kitchen counter, and mix the canned pumpkin and eggs and evaporated milk and sugar for pumpkin pie, stopping to smell each spice – sweet cinnamon, tart ginger, and exotic cloves – before tossing it into the bowl.
We would snap the ends off fresh green beans, then steam them with a touch of sugar, toss them in butter and - unless we forgot - throw crunchy almonds on top. We would mash red potatoes so the flecks of satiny skin would peek out of each whipped white spoonful. We would boil the cut yams and puree them with orange juice, then bake them in the oven with a sweet crust of nuts and brown sugar. We would make dough and watch it rise, then cook dinner rolls and hide pats of melting yellow butter inside each one. Tongue in cheek, we would open a can of Ocean Spray Cranberry Jelly and put it on a plate completely intact, cutting off a few rounds so they looked like sliced beets.
Finally the turkey would come out of the oven, and we would make deliciously lumpy gravy with the scrapings left in the bottom of the roasting pan. The meal would take as long as necessary to prepare, and when everything was ready, we would sit down, just the four of us, and hold hands and thank God for this marvelous feast and this marvelous day and the miracle of being alive and together.
Unfortunately, it was about this time my mother decided that Thanksgiving was absolutely vital to her after all. My brother refused to see her, so I generally took pity on the aged parents and invited them to our house, where they would proceed to wreak havoc. My mother would bring her own gin in a thermos and arrive drunk and ready to criticize, belittle, scorn, deride, and disparage. She is a bona fide genius at sucking the joy out of any occasion.
Once my little son looked out the front window, saw their car pulling up, and said, “Uh oh… more sadness.”
Once my daughter came over to me and whispered, “Mom, what should I do? Gamma is cheating at checkers!” Who cheats a little child at checkers?
Once my mother sat down and an army of deer ticks proceeded to exit from her clothes onto my couch. I was incensed. She had made my father stop the car somewhere random so she could sit in the grass and drink, meanwhile collecting hundreds of ticks to pass along to my children - along with Lyme Disease, Babesiosis, Ehrlichiosis, Anaplasmosis, and all the other tick-borne diseases. She played the abused victim to the hilt. “All we did was stop for a picnic on the way,” she said innocently. What was wrong with ME?
Last week we held a special early Thanksgiving celebration for my parents, who are now aged 92 and 94. My brother flew in from Latvia for the occasion. Many people went to a great deal of effort to make the day a success for these two people in deep old age who are incontinent, wheelchair-bound, and half-senile. My father smiled at his end of the table, unable to speak, but his eyes still expressive. My mother sat at her end of the table, looking down at her plate. She never smiled, never spoke, never expressed gratitude for anything, and, after being served two kinds of pie, went immediately to bed.
That afternoon she called me. She wants ANOTHER Thanksgiving. Why won’t I come over this Thursday?
Please share your Thanksgiving memories in the comments below. I am eager to hear them!
11/26/2013
No comments:
Post a Comment