The Real Thanksgiving Story

Just for the record,  the real Thanksgiving Dinner went off very well with no scenes from "Hotel California." 

My daughter reports that the 22 lb turkey from a local organic farm cost $125.  Holy shit!  That's like almost $6 a pound.   It was delicious and moist.  Still cheaper than fish or beef.

We did not mention the election, except for the 16 year old grand son who wanted to see the adults fight.  He kept making anti-Trump statements.  (His dad was a pro-Trump guy). 

It was peaceful and congenial and we were all thankful for our blessings.

...

We did not talk about the terrible choices Trump is making for his cabinet.  I was always disappointed that Obama did not select the strongest people for his administration, (especially Treasury and AG and Sec of State, twice), but he looks like a genius compared to the Twitterer-in-Chief (elect)'s announced appointments and reported considerations,  Nikki Haley is an ok choice for UN Ambassador -- what the heck do they do, anyway? 

 I am not feeling to confident when the guy who has been named Attorney General is a racist homophobe (Sessions).  Ben Carson, who admits that he has no administrative experience is gonna be HUD Secretary.  Two others are blatant plum jobs as a reward for rich donors, who are utterly unqualified to be Cabinet members.  If Rudy Guiliani gets Sec of State, I'm moving to Mexico, if they will let me in.. 

Thanksgiving 2016

It’s a cloudy day in New England.  The family gathers for the annual dinner and opportunity to reconnect.  We arrive and get hugs all around except from the grandchildren who barely look up from their electronic devices, with a “Uh, Hi.” Then back to the chase or battle or grand theft felony games.  

Fine, we think, accepting the proffered bloody marys; we prefer adult conversation anyhow.  But there are warnings this post-election year.  The wrong guy has been elected and those of us who are in the majority must be careful not to talk about it.  “No politics! Period,” our host commands.  

Several members of the family voted for the wrong guy and will very likely be displaying some offensive righteousness, if allowed to enter a free-for-all discussion.  The majority, wallowing in moral superiority and fear, cannot bring ourselves to even acknowledge the reality of what has happened, because it can't happen here. Or so we thought.   How could the opposition not see the calamities that will surely fall upon all our heads?

We, who are proud to profess our tolerance of all human behavior, except what we call hate-speech, remain steadfastly intolerant of people who disagree with us on which candidate was worse.

No, we must not allow talk about it.  Like being at a wake, we shall not speak ill.  We make a list of approved topics – Mmm the stuffing is especially good this year. Is that a new painting hanging on the wall?  So, how about them Patriots?  How is that cure for nagging rectal itch working out?  Cold, isn’t it?  What a cute kitty,  (to grandkid:  Hows school going? What grade are you in now? Really?) and etcetera. 

(Speaking of grandkids, one grandpa I know tells me that when he would visit his grandkids, which was not often, they would ignore him and keep playing or watching their devices.  He decided to start giving them each a crisp twenty dollar bill.  He reports that now every time he comes in the door they compete with each other to run and give him a big hug.) 

       

But I digress.  

At the Thanksgiving gathering, we,  the majority, stand around, sipping our drinks, nervously waiting for the Alt-right contingent to arrive.  We hope they will not be gloating about the election outcome -- or worse, complaining about the not-my-president  riots protests.   And if we hear any talk about immigration, the wall, locking-her-up, extreme muslim terrorists, trade pacts, China, guns, or the revered cast of “Hamilton,” we will be furious.  The more we think about it, the more pissed-off we get.

Who do they think they are, lording it over us like that?  Those fucking deplorables!

We gather at the window as the hate wagon arrives with it’s gaudy Trump/Pence bumper sticker. 

“Hello everyone,” they greet us warmly. 

We see through that phoniness, and stab them with our steely knives.    

Thanksgiving Memories

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Growing up in Watertown, my memories of those family feasts are of happy times. The holiday began on Thanksgiving Eve when my mother would start preparing the stuffing. The house would be full of delicious odors as mounds of chopped onions and celery and Jimmy Dean sausage were sautéed,  then mixed with bread crumbs, seasoning, and "secret Irish spices" – which was our joking reference to plain salt and pepper.

Mom would be up at six the next morning, making the final preparations and getting the turkey into the oven. By the time we kids got out of bed, the house was already warm with the aroma of roasting turkey. Store-bought turkeys always came with a bag of bird parts, called "giblets." Mom would boil the giblets in a pan to feed them to the cats, so they could have Thanksgiving too.

I read somewhere that some of our most vivid memories are associated with odor.  To me, there is nothing that says "home" quite like the fragrance of a turkey cooking in the oven. The whole house smells like peace love and harmony.

I have happy memories of those days when we were all young and healthy. My grandparents came to our house for holiday feasts.  They lived in a tiny cottage near Revere Beach. They would drive 17 miles along winding Rte. 16 east to our house on Robbins Road. I still remember one time when they arrived at our house in the old maroon Plymouth sedan. Grandpa was a careful driver and he would frequently get honked-at for moving too slowly for some speed demons. He would respond with colorful curses picked up during his Navy days. We were very amused when we asked my grandmother about the traffic, she remarked, "Well, there sure were a lot of (expletive deleted)s on the road today!" She was of course quoting the words Grandpa had yelled out the window to anyone who honked at him.   

Usually we kids would go to the Watertown-Belmont football game. Dad might walk down with us if the weather was good. After the game we would return home, and the smell of the roasting turkey would hit us as we walked through the door. We had various chores. Mine was to peel and cut the turnip and squash for boiling. While the vegetables were boiling, Mom would serve hors d'oeuvres of cooked shrimp, nuts, celery and olives. For drinks there was always chilled cider and sodas for the young people and plenty of bubbly for the adults.    

Finally the dinner would be served and eight of us would gather around the table. We all stuffed ourselves on roast turkey with mashed potatoes, squash, turnip, green peas, cranberry jelly, dinner rolls. Everyone raved about Mom's gravy. She always said that it was because she used the same water that was used to boil the turnips and onions. I still do not know how mom got everything on the table while still piping hot. We didn't have microwaves back then.

A few years later my daughters would grow-up in Wellesley, but we celebrated Thanksgiving in a very similar manner. Thankfully, when the time came, my wife Judy took on the role of hostess and kept the same cherished recipes for stuffing, gravy, and all the rest: the traditional football game (against Needham), the dinner with all the fixin's – and then the visiting grandparents were our mom and dad.  

A few years ago, the Thanksgiving baton was passed to my eldest daughter, Erica. She has now assumed the role as holiday hostess and will be cooking the turkey this year.   

Now, We are the visiting grandparents. We will be driving over to Natick next Thursday afternoon. If you are going that way and you see a Dodge Caravan that seems to be going too slowly, please refrain from honking. I am just being a careful driver. It runs in the family.