It’s Thanksgiving. This is the time of year we look forward to, the time when we gather with family and friends and spend all day making piles of good food, and all night eating it, being liberal with the wine or eggnog. The time we spend telling stories and playing games and watching the small children run in circles around the sofa. My dad loved Thanksgiving. “What a feast!” He’d always say, surveying the turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie I made from scratch almost every year (short of roasting my own pumpkin, even my lofty baking ambitions have their limits.) “What a feast!”
Unlike other holidays, Thanksgiving serves no purpose other than the making and sharing of food. There are no gifts exchanged, no mass attended. The only ritual, the most important ritual, is to be close to those you love and to eat too much. It’s a holiday that doesn’t divide very well, it’s possible to do a sort of pub crawl among several different dinners, but I’ve always felt that misses the point. Better to pick one table and fully commit.
I learned this lesson the first Thanksgiving after my parents divorced. That happened the summer I was twenty, going into my junior year at Cornish College for the Arts. It was the first genuinely terrible thing that had happened in my life, my first great loss. That year at Thanksgiving, all four members of my family arranged to be out of the city. We didn’t talk about it, but somehow my mom, my dad, my sister and I each managed to line up trips or visits that had us outside of Seattle on Thanksgiving day, away from our broken family table. I went to New York City and stayed with my friend Catherine who was doing a special semester of college there. I wandered the freezing streets in my flimsy little Seattle scarf, going to the bars Catherine had pre-screened as having lax carding policies and visiting museums. On Thanksgiving day we went to a French/Asian fusion restaurant in Brooklyn with a group of her friends, and I ate Tempura Soba and drank white wine.
The following year we tried to have it both ways. My sister and I ate lunch with our mom at Cosca’s on the Ave, and then went to our dad’s house for dinner. He’d prepared it the way he did most of his cooking those first years after the divorce-by using the PCC deli to its full advantage. The food was pretty good, but none of us was really in the mood to celebrate, and he’d mistakenly grabbed the vegan pumpkin pie, which was neither sweet or spicy enough, and tasted distractingly like tofu.
By the third year my dad had begun dating Sonia, and the whole family had figured out that the only way to deal with Thanksgiving was to alternate, with each parent getting us every other year. I had graduated college and was house-sitting for my friend Elizabeth, who had gone down to Oregon for the holiday. I had agreed to go up to Sonia’s for Thanksgiving, despite only having met her once, briefly, and having giant emotional reservations about my dad having a girlfriend. I brought a pie, homemade and perfectly seasoned and set out to Lynwood determined to get through the night in one piece. I’ve been a fish eating vegetarian since I was eight years old, but somehow this crucial piece of information had not been communicated to everyone cooking the food. So of course, the salad had bacon in it, the stuffing was prepared with chicken broth, and the things I could eat were alien dishes that had never before graced my Thanksgiving table. Things like Jello and green bean casserole. I pushed some mashed potatoes around my plate and made small talk, then I escaped back the house that wasn’t even mine where I ordered a pizza and called my mother. I broke down in tears as I relayed to her the ordeal I had suffered through, and lamented the general unfairness of everything. “And I LIKE her!” I wailed into the phone, this seeming like the ultimate cherry topper of unfairness, that in spite of everything I genuinely enjoyed the company of the woman who would later become my Stepmother.
Thanksgiving in the years since has been a marked improvement. When it was Dad and Sonia’s year I could count on a piece of salmon just for me, and I began to look forward to the green bean casserole, especially once my stepsister’s husband began making it with fresh green beans and homemade roux. I still brought pie, the usual pumpkin and one or two new ideas, attempts at pecan, or maple nutmeg custard. I continued to enjoy Sonia’s company, and loved my new, ever expanding family, my new rituals.
This year will be the first Thanksgiving since my dad passed, and as luck would have it, it’s his year. I was tempted to leave the city again, to run off to Canada for the weekend, or spend all day hiding in my room, or at a bar. But I’m not doing that. I’m going to go and have dinner with Sonia, and my sister, stepbrother and stepsister, and their spouses and children. I got up early so I could bake three pies before my roommate needed the oven for turkey. This year I made pumpkin, sour cream apple, and a new recipe I found for a cranberry/almond/caramel tart. I’m doing this because in spite of the great losses we have suffered, we are still family, and we are still very capable of making and eating good food.
My stepmother emailed me and my sister earlier this week, to check in on us, and she said she is determined to get through this holiday season “with gratitude, rather than despair.” It’s a mantra I will try and return to over and over as we move forward into through Thanksgiving into Advent and Christmas. I will try with everything I have to stay focused on gratitude. To remember the many good years we had together, to toast his memory. I am grateful, I had thirty two years of having a fantastic relationship with my dad, it’s a gift I don’t take for granted.