Thanksgiving

My mother loved holidays — all of them. As each celebration approached, decorations seemed to appear out of thin air to mark the day. We had plates, cups, saucers, gravy boats, and other accessories for many of them. Thanksgiving, in particular, was one of the days she loved the most. For much of my childhood, we alternated hosting my uncle and his family in Concord, Mass., and traveling to their home in St. Charles, Ill. The menu was traditional, midwestern traditional: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, cranberry sauce (from a can), and always a couple of pies. Experimentation or any variation was frowned upon, and I do not remember it even being seriously considered. Tradition. With all of us gathered around the Thanksgiving table, my mother was happy beyond words.

Traditions, of course, flex and change with time. With our children’s lead, we now have two types of cranberries (homemade sauce and relish), turkey breasts instead of a whole turkey — to make grilling and carving easier — and an ongoing debate about whether rice, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and macaroni and cheese — my wife’s family traditions — are included. Once we even took the seemingly heretical step of ordering from a restaurant — if my mother only knew!

This year we will be in Philadelphia with our kids. With any luck, we will have pinned down our menu in the next day or two while we consider what cooking can be done in our daughter‘s small kitchen. My brother, along with Rachel’s parents and her aunt and uncle, will join us. We will offer a toast to those who have passed away and make plenty of calls to relatives and friends. An Instagram post by someone who knows what that is will show the world that at least some part of the family has evolved.

While our Thanksgiving table will look different than the one from my childhood, my mother would have felt right at home nevertheless. To her, it was not about the food or the special plates; it was about family — generations passing along their hopes and dreams for themselves and for each other. Stories were retold and embellished over time, with new memories nourished each visit and the younger relatives at the kids’ table reassuring the rest of us that we would always be loved and never forgotten.

Happy Thanksgiving.

JWB