My Grandma and Grandpa are serious cooks. They possess the creativity, ingenuity, and plain old know how it takes to put together dinner for 25-30 people. Historically, these Thanksgiving dinners consisted of immediate family, extended family, dates, neighbors, lonely old widowers, and that guy from down the road that lost his food money to the Highway to Heaven pinball machine every damn year.
I remember showing up for Thanksgiving in various cars over twenty some odd years with my family. We had the Chevy Caprice that we dubbed the “UPOC”. (Ultimate Piece of Crap) The Thunderbird that died when my parents were test driving it, and that died again upon ramping up the Grandparent’s driveway. The Audi, a respectable car that we acquired by some stroke of good fortune, but was later totaled in transit by a red light dare devil. And the Lincoln Continental, a massive piece of crap, that failed bit by bit until we showed up pushing it while my father yelled out the window to the relatives that the stereo was still in great working order.
We always made it there though. We would pile through the front door of their comfortable small town home, shaking off leaves, and making a beeline towards whatever food we could grab.
The menu rarely varied. Turkey, dripping with homemade gravy. Ham quivering under the weight of glistening pineapple slices. Potato casserole, never complete without that mysterious layer of corn flakes. Greek Salad that I thought for years was a nod to our family’s ancestry, but was really just a recipe from Kroger. Green beans, yams, and cranberry sauce. Beer for the adults, and beer for me. And soda for all those other unlucky kids who didn’t know how to pour Guinness on ice and pretend like it was Coke.
Dessert was Pumpkin Pie, and Peach Cobbler, still warm from the oven. My earliest memories involve watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, and eating off of Dukes of Hazzard TV trays, and furry, footy pajamas. I remember being tucked in and sang to by mom while I was still furiously digesting and complaining about not being able to stay up and watch Johnny Carson.
I always managed to sneak several copies of my Christmas wish list under various plaid couch cushions. I would wait until the turkey’s effects paralyzed my elders, and then plant my scribbled bits of paper.
“Cabbage Patch Doll, with Birth Certificate,” they would read. “Monopoly that Dad can’t beat us at.”
Wishful thinking. My dad was and is a fierce competitor. He liked nothing more than to own Boardwalk and Park Place, and watch our little faces crumple as he counted his cash and told warm, fuzzy tales touting capitalism. In later years, this fun family rite of passage evolved into marathon pool tournaments. My dad would stand behind me as I lined up my shot and whisper, “You will never sink that ball. I own this table. This game is mine.”
These days, we go out to eat. Or, we don’t see each other at all. The last few years have been sort of touch and go, as everyone moves off to start their own lives. My Grandparents have lost their hard won love of dozens of pans to be scraped clean the morning after. My parents divorced, and now have new spouses and their families. My sister won’t touch meat now, but will probably be enjoying a vegan dinner somewhere in the Big Apple. And as I type, my brother and his wife are nesting in their home, in our home town, expecting a baby girl that will have these tales passed down to her around her own Thanksgiving table.
Dinner this year, because of work and circumstance, won’t be the tradition I remember, but a tradition in the making. I’m sure I will still enjoy some questionable offerings, (Indian food, Seven Layer Dip, and Tofurkey). The night will include football, an interesting amount of heartburn, and conversation with friends and my own family.
And I might still have some footy pajamas lying around somewhere.
You just never know.
