For many years when I was a child, every Wednesday before Thanksgiving our house was invaded by a plethora of relatives, with a record total of 18 at our table by the time dinner was actually served on Thursday one memorable year. Wednesday afternoon my mother would exit society to begin the process of cooking: baking the pies, stringing the beans, whipping the cream, and anything else that could be done the day before. Thursday morning she would be up at 4:00am to start the 25 pound turkey, then make cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Mom would have a couple of minutes to drink coffee over breakfast and pretend to relax with everyone. Then she’d be off again to continue cooking! Rather than lunch, we’d enjoy salmon pâté on rye bread, with Sparkling Apple Cider in the afternoon while we salivated over the smell of turkey and baking bread.
By 5:00 our formal dining room was decked out in china, crystal stem-ware and silver. Cloth napkins in fancy folds. Casserole dishes, salt and pepper shakers, and gravy boats matching the china. And a spread of food fit to feed an army of French gourmets. Everyone arrived at the table scrubbed and polished, in their Sunday best, and sat patiently in candlelight while the pictures were taken.
The family would chat about inconsequentials and eat for nearly an hour! Even so, we hardly seemed to make a dent on the mounds and mounds of food that my mother had taken so long to prepare. When we finally abandoned the idea of being able to stuff any additional food down our own gullets, everyone slowly moved away from the table. Of course my Grandfather would lead the charge of men into the living room to watch meaningless television, while my mother and I lead the attack on the platoon of dishes from the table, and attempted to fit all the left-overs back into the refrigerator. Of course, we were hampered by the phenomenon of how things once un-packed, never fit back into the original container, but somehow, eventually, we prevailed.
It usually took about an hour to get the kitchen back in some semblance of order, and start the first load of dishes. By then, the masses felt ready to indulge in pie. And most everyone would try a couple of different flavors of pie, from a choice of usually no less than four!
So, I have found that whenever I visualize Thanksgiving, this is what I see as “right”. Somehow I feel that dinner should include an overflowing table, served on matching china, to dressed-up guests. Recently, when I learned that we were expected to partake in Thanksgiving Dinner at my husband’s Grandmother’s Nursing Home, I found myself disappointed that this event would surely not live up to the expectations that my childhood experiences had set in me.
And then it struck me: the memories I have of those long ago Thanksgivings are great, they taught me an ideal to strive for. But I was being held prisoner by the ideal! I need to be able to embrace this opportunity to meet my in-laws, and become part of their family! China and silver don’t make the Holiday: the friends and family at the meal are what make it important and memorable!
May we all be blessed with mis-matched dishes, plastic utensils and lots of happy family and friends at our Thanksgiving tables this Holiday! And of course, the time to enjoy them!!
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