As
Thanksgiving approaches I am sharing an excerpt from an essay I wrote on a
Thanksgiving some years ago.
The Thanksgiving holiday is all about the turkey. Perhaps a football game or two and a little
holiday shopping. Well, actually, for
some people the shopping is more of a competitive sport than the all-day
football games on TV.
But here it is Thanksgiving and my turkey is in
another town. No, I am not stranded at
the airport due to weather or holiday crowds.
Rather, we were going to drive to my Mom’s house for our turkey dinner
and instead have found ourselves quarantined at home, 290 miles from our turkey
dinner.
To fully understand the situation I must digress a
bit. Actually, all the way back to our childhoods. My husband is an only child
and I am an only daughter. Neither of us
learned to cook with a lot of other people “help ing”
in the kitchen, so we seldom cook meals together. But on Thanksgiving, after 30 plus years of
marriage, my spouse and I have finally reached a truce and choreographed the
holiday meal to an art form. Early in
the day, I get the turkey ready, stuffed, and in the oven.
Early afternoon, my husband begins his elaborate
preparations of side dishes that bake
for at least an hour, most courtesy of Shaker recipes or Jeff Smith’s Frugal
Gourmet: corn pudding, sweet potatoes baked in maple syrup, and baked
apples. After he has lovingly nestled
his gourmet creations in the oven, I then prepare broccoli casserole (also
courtesy of a “Shaker” recipe, though I am jarred by the image of the Shakers
driving in horse-drawn carriages to market for Velveeta cheese food and Ritz
crackers), potatoes, and gravy.
This year, though, there is no turkey, not a small
roasting chicken, or even a Cornish hen in our house. Since we were not planning on being home for
Thanksgiving. Instead we had planned on driving
on Thanksgiving Day to Mom’s home some four and a half hours away. As a result of those travel plans and Mom’s
ill health, for the first time, instead of our usual holiday cooking routine,
somewhat reluctantly I had ordered a turkey dinner already fully prepared. This is likely to be Mom’s last Thanksgiving,
so I went a bit overboard and ordered an elaborate, take-out feast which Mom’s
care-giver has picked up and planned to heat and serve today.
Mom has had little appetite after completing five
weeks of radiation for a tumor discovered several months ago. Even though Mom is not likely to eat much of
the turkey dinner, I had hoped that she would at least enjoy the sight of a
plump, baked bird on her dining room table, and that feast, shared by family,
would lift her spirits.
Unfortunately, my husband and I aren’t able to be at
that table today. He came down with the
old-fashioned stomach flu on Thanksgiving Eve.
A result of a virus, no doubt, but one that seems almost unpatriotic in
its timing at the start of shopping and gluttony season. I, on the other hand, though not (yet)
affected by the stomach bug, instead am suffering from a longer term,
gastro-intestinal ailment that appears to be tracking Mom’s decline in health.
Thus, the absence of a turkey at our house this year
is not a loss we particularly miss except, perhaps, in the abstract.
Furthermore, according to the morning newspaper, most Americans gain five pounds
over the holiday season. The risks of
over-eating, even in a single meal were laid out like the proverbial buffet:
heart attack, stroke, gall stone attacks, not to mention old-fashioned
heartburn and gastric distress. We will
count ourselves lucky to be sidestepping these risks as, we pick sedately at
scrambled eggs, no toast for me on the chance my tummy upset is gluten
sensitivity activated by stress.
As
it turned out that was my Mom’s last Thanksgiving. She never rebounded after the radiation, but
instead lingered for many months as her life spirit and her strength
receded. My brother and I spent much of
that time with her. Only belatedly did
we think to play for her some of the music she had so enjoyed. Nevertheless, I like to think that even in her
coma-like state she heard and enjoyed some of the old Nat King Cole songs she
had played on the piano in her younger days.
During
my Mother’s final months I developed celiac, a disease associated with a severe
reaction to wheat and gluten. Celiac occurs as a result of a genetic
predisposition, and can be activated by physical or mental stress. Luckily, our son’s in-laws assure me they are
happy to serve a gluten- free turkey dinner.
It
has taken me awhile to realize Thanksgiving is not at all about the turkey. Or even the football and shopping. Rather, it’s about family, however you might
define them, and good friends. And it’s for
giving thanks for them, however far flung or distant they might now be.
