November 23, 2016 – Thanksgiving is food, family, and tradition.

          I didn’t realize it back then as I was just a kid.  But, my Mom ran a frugal household out of necessity.  It wasn’t until I was a teenager and attending the Regional High School that I realized our family was, let us put this delicately, not that well off.

          Several weeks before each holiday, my Mom would buy one item and hold it back for the holidays so that the grocery bill for the holiday week didn’t double. [As a young bride, I had forgotten this, and just about passed out my first Thanksgiving shopping trip.]  Examples of this were a can of jellied cranberry sauce, a large can of premium black olives, a jar of those incredibly sweet gherkin pickles, and a fresh box of Bell’s seasoning for the turkey and stuffing.

          Thanksgiving was always a big production when we were kids.  The night before, I always remember being in the kitchen peering into the fry pan as the diced onions and celery were sautéed for the stuffing. Then the cubed stale bread collected and dried over several weeks was crumbled into a large bowl. [Sometimes I helped with that.] Then the sautéed onions and celery and melted butter drizzled in.  The scalding hot water or giblet liquid added in ample amounts and the top dusted well with salt and pepper and Bell’s seasoning.

          Then my Mom’s hands tentatively dipped into the steaming bowl of stuffing to stir it up by hand.  Dad would hold the huge washed and dried turkey on its rump.  Mom would stuff it.  Dad would truss it up neatly with skewers and string.  I was mostly in the way, but I found it all so fascinating and loved the smell of the stuffing. [However, I never ate it as a kid.]

          The huge metal turkey roasting pan magically appeared from possibly the off season location of the attic.  The refrigerator was completely re-arranged to accommodate the thawed, stuffed turkey overnight.

          The next morning, Dad and my brothers would bring up the table.  It was in the cellar.  Dad had made it with a smooth wooden door and had affixed metal legs.  [I smile when I watch the movie Under the Tuscany Sun as they have a similar table they make out of a door and saw horses.]  Out the cellar door it came and around to the front door and into the living room.  It was always a production because it didn’t bend around corners easily.  It took patience and guidance by Dad so that the beloved pictures were not knocked off the walls.  I can remember the familiar sound of the “twang” of the metal legs when it got caught on the front step railing or the door jam.

  

          My job was to always set the table with the special silverware and dishes Mom used for only the Holidays.  This always included the crystal salt cellars for dipping the celery sticks.  Next I got to put the pickles and olives in the special divided pickle and olive dish.  When I got older I would open the canned jellied cranberry sauce which slid out of the can like magic when you opened both ends.  I would slice it the way Mom liked it.  And, often I would slice the real butter stick into patties.  Later, closer to eating, I would get the center pieces of the celery that had been saved special with those lovely leaves still attached and prop them up in a few goblets of water here and there down the table.

          When Grampy and Grammy Nixon arrived they would always be in their best clothes.  Grampy would be in his suit and Grammy in her newest, nicest outfit.  I would run to the car to meet them.  I relished those private hugs from both of them.  Grammy always brought the homemade mincemeat pie that Dad loved.  She always carried it into the house.  She never trusted anyone else to do it.  Dad always meet Grandma at the door and took the prized pie and set it aside with the squash pie Mom always made.

          Then, Grampy would take his felt fedora dress hat off and pop it on my head.  What a thrill.  I fancied I looked stylish in it. [Maybe that is why I love hats so much.]  One arm was for his very heavy top coat and the other for Grammy’s top coat.  I would take them down the hall to my parent’s bedroom and lay them on the bed neatly.  I always enjoyed a moment or two of my reflection in the mirror wearing Grampy’s hat and would reluctantly take it off and place it on the pillows for safety.

          All my jobs now done, I only had to wait until the turkey was done.  I stayed mostly out of the way, but I watched as Mom would baste the Turkey.  It was magic in the kitchen – the aromas and her precise timing.  Potatoes were cooked and mashed, broccoli steamed, squash cooked, everything always came out of the kitchen on time and hot.

          Dad would lift the big roasting pan holding the turkey out of the hot oven for Mom.  He lifted the turkey easily onto the huge platter.  Then Mom made the gravy in the bottom of the roasting pan that took up two burners.  I always watched the gravy process closely.

          When the gravy was done, all the covered vegetable dishes were placed on the table along with the warm rolls.  Dad carried the turkey to the head of the table and started his traditional sharpening of the carving knife with the sharpening stone.  This was the signal that you better sit down and now.

          All eyes were on Dad and on the golden brown turkey.  The carving knife sunk expertly into one breast and he carved slices of hot juicy turkey.

          It was always a Norman Rockwell moment.