Our oldest stayed in New Orleans and shared Thanksgiving with friends. I didn’t like his being away, but as my mother used to say, “It’s all part of a parent’s growing up.”
I decided to not start cooking in the pre-dawn hours. I slept in. I read the paper, cleaned house and laid the tablecloth. I would have washed clothes, but our second oldest, who did come home from college, was sleeping on a cot in the laundry room.
When our high schooler emerged, I said, “I want you to inject the marinade into the turkey.”
My daughter volunteered to make pecan pie. When it was finished she complained, “I want to make another pecan piece, but we don’t have any more corn syrup.” I told her to use honey instead. I washed honey and corn syrup off a sink filled with dishes, two counter, the floor and the oven door, but the pies were delicious, as were the pumpkin pie and cookies she also made.
The high schooler made the cherry cream pie. My husband arranged an elegant table of china and silver.
Then the collegiate one wandered out, picked up an empty pie shell and asked, “Are you going to make a pie with vegetables in it?”
“A what?” I asked.
“You know with eggs and cheese.”
“Oh a quiche,” I found a recipe and a package of frozen pieces of ham. “Warm up the ham in the microwave and make one.”
“Got any broccoli for it, Mom?” College has changed him. He yowled the loudest whenever I used to insist he eat anything green.
The absentee phoned. We called him right back, cooking as we talked. His brothers told him about school and that they were making pumpkin bread.
When I took the phone, he wistfully said, “Sounds fun, I almost wish I had come home.” He didn’t want to hang up so we talked about college, his girlfriend, Christmas shopping and work.
After he reluctantly said “good-bye,” I went back to the kitchen to wash dishes and make stuffing.
“Hey, Mom, can we have ‘northern’ stuffing this year, instead of southern?” the 11th-grader asked.
I pushed the cornbread aside and tossed white bread into the oven to toast. A couple minutes later I gave it to him, “Now break it up into small pieces while I chop and sauté the celery and onions.”
My husband precisely cut and arranged the carrots, celery, peppers and tomato on a relish tray and made punch.
I made banana nut bread, cleared counters and washed more dishes.
It was time to French fry the turkey. Holding the bird’s legs, my husband slowly eased it into the hot oil. As the lower cavity filled with the hot oil, it spewed oil back out, like a volcano. We finally drowned it in oil and it quietly finished cooking.
I had wanted to spew a volcano of tears this year that all my children weren’t home. I was reminded to “grow up” and make the most of what I had.
I did the turkey was golden crisp. The desserts too rich. The working together to prepare it all was just right. As we sat down to give thanks and eat, I was thank for time to be together and a 90-minute phone call at my expense.