The Real Thanksgiving Feast

It’s 1972, somewhere between four and five a.m.  Nixon is in the White House, and I am snug in my bed.  I can still hear the sound of hushed voices stirring and making their way into the hallway before descending down the stairs into the kitchen.  It’s mom and dad and the time has come. It is veiled in mystery like some Masonic lodge ritual.  I know something magical is going on and whatever it is, I feel warm inside.  Can something so special be taking place in our humble kitchen? Whatever culinary wizardry is taking place beneath me, I can’t fathom why it has to take place before the cock crows.

The night before, I sat listening quizzically to my parents. I tried to make sense of such strange words spoken in almost sacred tones. Words like ‘giblets’ and ‘the neck’ (yuck!) ‘dressing’ and ‘gravy.’ What in the world were ‘giblets’?  Whatever it was it probably wiggled and was mushy. I would never eat it! And wasn’t ‘dressing’ putting your clothes on?  The neck? What the heck? I kind of knew what gravy was but it seems like we only had it twice a year, Thanksgiving and Christmas. By daybreak the kitchen was a whirlwind of activity. A golden behemoth sat in the oven while its mouth-watering aroma filled every crack and crevice of our house.  The meal was served on special dishes that we only saw once a year.

Fast forward 30 years. Now it was me, bandying about such words as giblets and brine.  The veil of secrecy had been lifted!  I was part of the brotherhood - a bona fide grownup.  I prepared an entire Thanksgiving feast all by myself.  When it was all done, my family bowed down in adoration at my feet, as they well should have.

And with time, the prospect of cooking the Thanksgiving meal became less intimidating. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a monumental task.  But I’m learning to be smarter and more chill about the whole thing.  The kids are older now, so I’ve got them sharing the load.  I delegate a dish or two to each of them.  Last year I cooked the turkey, gravy and dressing.  (I’ve simplified this by cooking turkey drumsticks and thighs instead of the massive bird since we love the dark meat more anyway). My husband ‘cooked’ the ham (it was one of those pre-cooked spiral glazed numbers). Daughter one prepared the mashed potatoes and green beans. Daughter two whipped up the corn pudding, rolls and yams. And my two sons fixed the macaroni and cheese. Voila! We thoroughly enjoyed our feast and it wasn’t too much work for any one person.

We’ll see how things go this year, as my back went out yesterday and I’m on bed rest and Vicodin!  So I couldn’t stress out this year, even if I wanted to. Which is fine because,
in the end, the food, the fancy china, the centerpieces are all secondary.  It’s about the expression of gratitude for the Lord’s bounty in our lives.  The gravy, the giblets, pumpkin pie, it’s all good.  But acknowledging God’s goodness and faithfulness in the presence of our closest loved ones - that’s the real feast.