On Thanksgiving morning, we would wake to the smells of
turkey roasting, pies and breads baking and the sounds of clattering dishes,
pots and pans.
Even after my mother began working full-time (outside the
home), every Thanksgiving was an event.
It was a time to show your love for your family, to bring them together
and to cherish them. However, with the
stress associated with this meal…you’d never know that! “Thanksgiving is the hardest meal to get on
the table”, she said. And, we all
believed that because, though absolutely delicious, it was a truly painful
exercise.
My mother would wake at 4am to put the giant turkey in the
oven. It had been thawing in the
refrigerator for days and it would then take hours to roast. She had made three or four pans of cornbread
and the multiple loaves of Wonder bread had been torn apart and strewn around
the kitchen and utility room to dry for the cornbread dressing; it couldn’t be
finished until after the turkey came out of the oven. You see, we did not stuff the turkey, not
because it was a source for food poisoning but because it would be soggy. Therefore, we had baked dressing that
depended on the quality of the turkey and its broth. If the turkey broth wasn’t good, then the dressing
wouldn’t be good. Anathema! And, don’t even talk about the gravy if the
broth isn’t up to par, and bad gravy?
Another horror. Potatoes? Well, you could peel and dice them and leave
them in cold water but couldn’t finish them until right before dinner. Pies couldn’t be baked until Thanksgiving
Day; they would be “old”. Even the
cranberry sauce was made from scratch, poured into gelatin molds, covered and
left to sit in the cold garage. You
can’t put it in the refrigerator; it will weep and not set up properly.
Yes, my mother was a perfectionist. If it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth
doing. That character trait extended
into all parts of her life, the kitchen included; it was her domain, make no
mistake about that. Children were not
allowed in my mother’s kitchen; they were messy and required supervision. The kitchen was her playing field and she
would not, could not allow anyone to distract her from her mission. And, her mission on Thanksgiving was to
produce a perfect bird with all of the trimmings on the table with everything
piping hot and amazingly delicious. And,
no one better get in her way. Her
intensity was palpable as she orchestrated the meal and its components. The term “well-oiled machine” comes to
mind. The Thanksgiving groaning board
had a rhythm and predictability about it.
There was the turkey, of course, all 22 pounds, always golden brown and
never ever dry, the traditional
cornbread dressing, steamy and toasty brown with flecks of celery and onion and
the heady aroma of rubbed sage, velvety and buttery mashed potatoes, savory and
earthy giblet gravy not to mention the unending variety of vegetables. And, it all had to be there at once, nothing
could lag behind. Hence, the incantation
– “Thanksgiving is the hardest meal to
get on the table!”
But the interesting thing about my mother and her need for a
perfect dinner table was that it was also an expression of how much she loved
you. It was supremely important for her
to know what her husband, children and extended family enjoyed eating so that
she could prepare it with great care and love. Having grown up on a farm, she
completely respected the food and her love for her family was an extension of
that respect. Food lovingly prepared for
the people in her life.
