Thanksgiving down "pat"
More than ever, now is the time to embrace Thanksgiving. Sure there's the economy and domestic policy, as well as international events and personal strife looming like cigarette smoke over a crowded bar. So open a window, empty the fridge and the pantry, and start cookin' while counting your blessings.
Whether in good times or bad (and growing up we had a lot of both), Mom and Dad never forgot to give thanks for what we had -- a roof over our heads, family, health, and food on the table served with a few laughs.
Like a lot of families, we had our rituals that started with the thawing of the turkey a few days before the holiday. My folks were experts at poultry acquisition. Their preferred brand was Butterball, and usually a 22-pounder, which they secured weeks before the rush.
Ole Tom Turkey would enjoy a 24-hour warm water bath in our kitchen sink. This was a painfully slow thaw to ensure that no meat was damaged or bruised. My folks would check the water every so often, even through the night, and change it when necessary.
On the morning of that revered fourth Thursday of November, chefdom reigned. Mom and Dad were side-by-side in the kitchen. The turkey roasted in the upper oven, so Mom had to stand on her toes to baste the bird. On occasion, Dad would sneak an opportune pat on Mom's unguarded behind. "Jack!" Mom would say with a flush and a giggle as Dad darted off with a mischievous chuckle.
Dad worked furiously on his turkey-dressing recipe, which he finagled from my maternal grandmother, adding a few of his own country-boy touches. All the seasonings under low and slow heat filled the kitchen with mouthwatering aromas.
And that was just the morning. Once the turkey and or dressing were complete, Dad started in on his own version of Chex-Mix. I can't remember all the ingredients, but it included Lea & Perrins steak sauce and various nuts not usually found in the commercial brand. He slow roasted the concoction for hours -- stirring the batch every so often to be sure it didn't burn.
By mid afternoon, Mom proudly put the finishing touches on the dining room-- the best cloth laid over the Mahogany dining table, the good china and freshly polished silverware resting on our fine napkins, capping off each place setting arranged to seat the family according to rank (I was number four of four sons -- low man). Dad took the head of the table with Mom on the opposite end.
My folks are gone but much of their rituals (and their memory) persist in the blended traditions of my own family. Like my dad I make the turkey, thawing it slowly and gently prepare it for baking by massaging it with melting butter and a blizzard of spices. It slow cooks in the oven as my wife and I work together to recreate Dad's turkey-dressing recipe. And one of us tries to sneak a pat from the other when the boys aren't looking.
Yep, the boys are in the kitchen, too. They help slice up onions and celery, mash breadcrumbs, de-stem our homegrown herbs, or whatever we need done to move things along.
In my wife's tradition, the feast also includes pasta and sauce, an herbed olive oil for dipping bread, and fantabulous homemade desserts (of her own design). This year we're adding something new. I'm taking off the Wednesday before Thanksgiving to make Italian sausage with my sons. I learned how from my mother-in-law's brothers and want to pass that on to the boys, We'll not only cook up a few sausage links for Thanksgiving, but use much of the sausage when my wife, along with her mom and sister make Italian sausage bread for the Christmas season.
And that is one of the top three reasons I'm thankful I married the woman; another is our sons, and the third I'll keep to myself.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Copyright 2008 by David Falloure
