I was 19 years old the first time I made an entire Thanksgiving dinner by myself. I came home from college to a note on the kitchen table from my mom. She left town quickly, going on vacation to Florida with her then-boyfriend, our widowed next door neighbor that we, her kids, loathed for many good reasons, and his wild teenage daughter. Great. Now what? My middle brother was distraught when he came home from his upstate New York school. He's someone who enjoys comforts, rituals, stability, and routines. What about Thanksgiving?
He asked me, tears in his eyes from shock, growing more emotional. Are we not going to have a holiday now?! He's a lovely, sensitive boy, and he was struggling with being away at school, while I thrived under my own domain, because I'd already had an enormous amount of life experience and responsibilities for such a young girl. I felt terrible. Well, I said to him, let me call Grandma and Grandpa, and see what they think. My grandparents lived within ten minutes of us, and they often served as surrogate parents in the absences of my mother and father. My father had left the area years ago for points out west, establishing a business and another family, so he was almost completely out of reach of us, in that time before cell phones, computers, emails, and the Internet.
When I reached my grandparents on the phone, they were taken aback. My mother had left town without telling them either, typical for someone with her issues. It was a cowardly thing to do, but not unlike her to leave such a huge parental burden on my shoulders. My grandparents weren't much help, either. At that point they stopped hosting big dinners with a lot of cooking because they were elderly (like they had warned us they would do for many years, as part of their retirement), and they no longer had the energy for such large family affairs. I took a deep breath. OK, I said to them over the phone, I'll do it. I'll make Thanksgiving dinner. After all, I reasoned to myself, I'd made gravy with my grandmother on Thanksgiving before as a little girl, and she'd be with me in my mother's kitchen to give me moral support. Vegetables were easy, they would bring dessert, so I just had to manage the bird and the side dishes on my own.
And so I did it. I went to the store and bought everything I knew I'd need. I smoothed the nice white linen table cloth over the dining room table, took out the good china from the wooden sideboard, polished the fine silver like I'd done countless times in my youth, and washed the crystal glasses that I took out of the glass case where the special occasion tableware was kept. I woke up early the next day, put on one of my mother's aprons, got the heavy stuffed turkey in the oven, sewing the bird shut just like I'd seen it done before, saving the giblets in the sink like my grandfather taught me to do for soup and gravy, and I then made an entire dinner by myself. My grandparents drove over to the house, and I was there to greet them at the front door to usher in the holiday with them. I took their coats and hung them up in the hall closet, just like my parents used to do with guests. I remember feeling grown up, helpful, competent, and very much in command of the day's events. We went into the kitchen. We opened some wine, and my brother and grandfather drank beer. I put all the food on the table as they sat down. When the last dish hit the table, I breathed a sigh of relief, pulling my chair up to the table, placing the linen napkin on my lap. My grandfather said "Grace" at the head of the table. Afterwards, I raised my glass in toast to my grandmother, grandfather, and brother, smiling widely at each of them as we clinked glasses.
I thought about that time again last weekend at the grocery store, having dragged myself there from my sick bed because I didn't have any food to eat. The cashier was deep in conversation with the lady in line before me about typical holiday family drama stuff, of a kind so common to this area and particular to this culture, that when she was done with her groceries, I stepped seamlessly into the conversation, picking right up where my neighbor left off. The clerk couldn't understand why her sister wouldn't host, but OK, why not have it at her house? What about her mother's house? She has plenty of room! We laughed exasperatedly over our predicaments, as I told her my teenage tale of woe. She chuckled ruefully about it, saying tiredly to me, as we bagged my groceries: "All I want to do is put up my feet, have a beer, and order pizza." Oh, yeah, that sounds good. I sighed as I shouldered the heavy bag for my walk back. "Me, too", I said, and then I hoped we would both get our holiday wishes this year. It looks like I will, because this little mommy desperately needs her rest, if only for one day. Thanks.
