Thanksgiving 2017
Much more food was eaten, but due to an excess of wine, I only remembered to capture one crude photo of the pumpkin pie.
This year, Thanksgiving dinner caused a clash of emotions.
It began the night before while I was prepping the pumpkin pie. My bubbie (grandmom in Yiddish) stayed the night. Clutched in her hand mere minutes after arrival was a bottle of Cento Jalapeño Peppers, filled to the top not with spicy peppers, but with a sloshy golden liquid. It was filled with Bubbie’s drink of choice: Canadian Club whiskey. Despite my parents’ repeated assurance that we have Canadian Club at home just for her, Bubbie always brings some re-purposed bottle full of alcohol (last time it was a plastic bear originally housing honey).
“What kind of pie are you making?” Bubbie asked as I rolled out the dough.
“Pumpkin,” I replied each time she asked — about five times, each question only a couple minutes after the other.
Thanksgiving day started out smooth.
— The family watched Babe on TV
— I cried while watching Babe on TV
— I made the stuffing, seasoned the turkey, took a walk with Bubbie, prepped more food
— I opened the wine
Around 3:30 my bubbie’s sister, Aunt Thelma, arrived with her boyfriend. My mom returned home after picking up my other grandmom. Cheese and crackers were consumed, and by 4:30 all the food was cooked. It was a small gathering: just me, my parents and the aforementioned senior citizens.
They could sense the dinner was ready. Slowly they started to scuffle over to the table, muttering about where they should sit and what they wanted to eat first. Aunt Thelma referred to her boyfriend using her deceased husband’s name multiple times throughout the evening. Grandmom told me three times she wanted the tuchus (Yiddish term for the ass bone) before she even sat down. I assured her that no one was fighting over it.
We ate green beans almondine, hasselback butternut squash, herby stuffing, Bubbie’s mushroom gravy, brussels sprouts slaw, and of course Turkey.
For desert, I served my homemade pumpkin pie. Bubbie refused to eat it on the principle that she doesn’t like pumpkin, but everyone else was very happy with it.
This Thanksgiving, I felt accomplished for the dinner I had prepared nearly single-handed and right on schedule. And I was so grateful that I was in a position where I could afford to fuss about my menu. I felt sentimental about the generations of my family and the special stories and insights about the past that you only hear at this type of thing.
But I also felt the sadness of watching loved ones fade. I saw three widows bravely continue on with their lives in three very different ways.
My Thanksgiving was a cornucopia of emotions.
