I thought I would spend the next week sharing my memories of some Thanksgiving pasts. There is a purpose to this, one that is hopefully therapeutic for me. This will be the second Thanksgiving in a row that I’m facing after having lost someone important in my life in the previous year. So I look back in an effort to move forward. This first post turned into a monster, so I decided to split it in half. I present, here, part I. It is a series of events that feel germane to a badly written sitcom, but I swear they’re true.
Last year was my first holiday season after Mark left me. We always celebrated our ”anniversary” on November 21st which, of course, meant that it often fell around Thanksgiving. Realizing that I would likely be feeling depressed and lonely, I actively arranged someplace to be for the day of thanks. This involved a certain amount of somersaulting because my original plan involved spending it with my mom. I love my mother dearly, but it can be very difficult to “make plans” with her. Her household tends to operate on a certain amount of spur of the moment mentality. I, however, am a planner, and particularly last year, wanted to know, for sure, that I would not be alone that Thursday. So, I called on my friend and former roommate Cathy. If my mom was unavailable, I would spend the day with her husband, Jason, and her. As it turned out, my mom decided to host the dinner and Cathy and Jason would join us.
My company gives away turkeys to all employees for Thanksgiving. Or rather, they give certificates that can be exchanged for a turkey. We stopped being able to buy frozen turkeys directly from a grocery store because they couldn’t accommodate such a large order so close to Thanksgiving. I was not sad about this – by the time 50 frozen turkeys had spent the day defrosting on our operations department carpet, the entire office smelled like a butcher’s counter. And, inevitably, someone always forgot to pick up their bird, which involved trying to find space in the company fridge for it. The exception was the last year we did actual birds – people took more than one and so we ended up short. That was the last straw and we moved over to certificates the next year. Since I’m a vegetarian, I often don’t take mine, but this year I sent my certificate to my mom. If I was “forcing” her to host, I might as well help provide the main course.
The three households planned the menu via email. My mom, who’s not quite a technology virgin, was delighted with the ease of the process. A couple emails in which we cc’d everyone, and the menu was set and we all knew what we were responsible for. I was responsible for the veggie main course; Cathy and Jason were bringing a salad and some baked goodies (she is an amazing baker). I also suggested that they bring some wine as they’re more wine literate than I am, and the last time I looked at the wine rack at my mom’s there was something growing on it. My mom would provide the rest.
I drove over Wednesday evening with my quinoa stuffed eggplant and found the prep work well under way. When I expressed my amazement (the stock was done, the bird was brining, the pumpkin pies were finished), my mom replied, “I’m retired now! I didn’t have to work today.” Of course.
Thanksgiving arrived. I wandered out to the kitchen to find mounds of celery and onion waiting to be added to the stuffing and the bird wide open ready to be, well, stuffed. “Did I tell you about the turkey?” my mom asked as I poured a cup of coffee and snagged a chestnut out of the bowl.
I eyed the bird and took a small sip of coffee. My heart began to race instantly – my mom is quite fond of strong coffee. “What about the turkey?”
“Well I went to Safeway, and they didn’t have the brand that the certificate was for.”
Oh god, I thought. Please tell me she didn’t buy a turkey. “OK, but the store’s supposed to let you swap out for a different brand if they don’t carry it.”
She began emptying stuffing mixture into two bowls. “Right. So I went to Linardi’s and they didn’t have it either. So I looked through the fresh turkeys and found one for 17.99 pounds and convinced the checker to accept the certificate for it. After all, it was under 18 pounds.”
I stared at her. “But, the certificate was only good for frozen turkeys.”
“It doesn’t say anywhere on that piece of paper that it is only good for a frozen turkey. It says it’s only good for a turkey up to 18 pounds.” She dropped two sticks of margarine into a pan of turkey stock.
“Wow.” I snagged another chestnut, amazed yet again at how well my mom is able to negotiate bulldoze wheedle the unsuspecting public. “Linardi’s is going to be pissed when they only get reimbursed for the cost of a frozen bird.”
She handed me a bowl. “That’s not my problem. Here’s some vegetable stock; start mixing your stuffing.”
I must pause here to wax rapturous over my mother’s stuffing. It is this fabulous mixture of sweet and savory, crunchy and chewy. It has the basic celery and onion, but she also throws in roasted chestnuts, sauteed mushrooms, and dried cranberries. Then she douses it with sage, oregano, and thyme. I can eat the stuff by the plateful! It is always the first leftover to disappear.
Since becoming a vegetarian 13 years ago, I have spent only a few Thanksgivings with my mom (this has less to do with my eating habits and more to do with our schedules). She always buys extra stuffing mix and has a veggie stuffing made. Last year I made it, imitating her to the best of my ability, as she stuffed the bird. By 10, it was in the oven, which was doing its best to smoke us out of the kitchen. Cathy and Jason were coming sometime between 2 & 4. Dinner was on course. We set ourselves to the tasks of the remaining side dishes.
At two o’clock my step-brother, Evan, arrived. My mom began to diligently check the turkey. She changed thermometers and checked again And again with a third. My step-mother, Margaret, turned to me. “When are Cathy and Jason arriving?” she asked.
“Sometime between two and four – probably closer to four,” I replied as my mom dug through the drawers for another thermometer.
“Two and four?” Margaret exclaimed.
I muttered something about that being the time frame I was given. Evan sat down at the counter. “You can make clam dip, Mom. It’s not Thanksgiving without clam dip.”
As Margaret began to gather the ingredients for the bi-valve concoction her entire family loves, my mom pulled The Joy of Cooking out, checked it, pulled the original edition out, consulted it, and visibly began checking her math. She looked at the clock and shrugged.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Turkey’s cooking slow,” she said. “But we should still be in our estimated time.”
At some point, I was put in charge of the mashed potatoes. I should mention at this point that I live in a fairly modern complex. Read: my plumbing works and is of this century. Mom and Margaret live in a funky, old ranch house that is pushing the century mark. It is falling down about their ears a bit, and minor “repairs” tend to lead to substantial remodels. The kitchen is really awkward in many ways, particularly for multiple people, and for cooking large meals. As an added bonus, it is often the warmest room in a house that averages 63 degrees, so people are always congregating in it.
So, back to the potatoes. I grabbed the vegetable peeler, and without question began peeling the potatoes into the sink. When I finished, I whisked them down the garbage disposal and turned to the next task.
Within 20 minutes, the opposite side of the sink began to back up. I didn’t think too much of this; I ran the garbage disposal for a few more minutes, assuming it would grind up whatever was causing the back up. I was wrong. Not only did it not grind up the clog, it increased the water level on the clogged side. “Um, guys,” I said. “We seem to have a bit of a problem.”
Margaret looked over my shoulder. “What did you do?” she asked.
“I peeled potatoes.”
“Into the sink?!”
“Yes, into the sink. I do it all the time at home.”
Evan left the kitchen, returning with a plunger. “This should clear it.” He plunged. He reached into the disposal (and came up empty). He plunged some more. “Hmmm,” he muttered and stuck his head under the sink (my mom, due to the incredibly awkward set up of the kitchen has been trapped in the pantry with the oven since I first noticed the clog). Evan got up and left again (my mom took the opportunity to escape the pantry), returning with his tools and a plumber’s snake. He undid the trap (also empty) and began to run the snake through the drain. Several times. When he tried to put the trap back together two problems emerged. The first was that the washer snapped; the second was that the pipe into the wall had been cross-threaded, and he could not get it to seal. Oh, and the sink was still clogged. Realizing that nothing was going to get fixed that day, he stuck a bucket under the drain. It was now four. My mom declared victory on the turkey and pulled it out of the oven. “Where are your friends?” Evan asked.
At that point I placed a phone call. I got her voice-mail, which I took to be a good sign. “I think they’re on their way,” I announced. Meanwhile, Mom had four meat thermometers in the turkey and was taking comparative readings. She sighed. “I don’t know. It says it’s done. It just took really long.” We began to put everything that needed to be heated into the now empty oven, and quickly ran out of room. With at least four more side dishes the warm, we were faced with a logistical problem. Fortunately, there were two other ovens on the property: one in Evan’s apartment, and one in the guest house they rented to a retired math teacher (he was elsewhere). We decided to divide and conquer. Within five minutes, all three ovens were filled to capacity.
Margaret pulled a third cookbook out and consulted it. “Big birds always take a while,” she said sagely. Mom glared at her.
At that point the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell. I threw open the door. “Hi! Traffic?”
Jason looked taken aback. Cathy said, “Well, not exactly.”
“Oh well, you’re here now. Ignore the voice-mail I left you. The turkey’s out.” I didn’t quite drag them into the kitchen. “They’re here!” I announced. If you’re reading this and thinking, She’s a might bit twitchy, well, you’d be right. Extended periods of exposure to the “Mom and Margaret” dynamic cause that reaction in me. In many instances it’s unfair, but such is life.
Introductions were made, Jason was given a tour of the house (and had clam dip forced on him), wine was poured as we waited for the remaining dishes to reheat. After such an eventful morning, our dinner appeared to be off to a good start. Dishes began to appear on the table from the various ovens. The turkey was destuffed and the slicing began.
“I think we are ready to eat.”
