On ever-changing Thanksgivings..

One of our many Thanksgivings at Nana and Grandpa's. Note, my mouth is full. 

Our home in Hingham that hosted many a happy Thanksgiving from 1986-2016. Unfortunately, it was torn down in 2018.

​“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go”. It seemed an apt song, as Thanksgiving meant riding in the car for an interminable hour and a half to my grandparents’ home on Cape Cod. We sang that song until my parents begged us to stop. Upon arrival, the grown ups thought it was so funny that crazy Aunt Mae, Grandpa’s sister, got a speeding ticket on the way down from Boston. My siblings and I, then ages 4, 7 and 9, would put on impromptu plays in the kitchen while the turkey was cooking. Our meal was traditional: dry stuffing, lumpy mashed potatoes, a bowl of squash and green beans steeped in cream of mushroom soup. Grandpa always carved the turkey, and we would walk around the block before dessert, waving to the neighbors. At this point, Thanksgiving meant  family.
 
Ten years later, and it was just another Thursday in Paris, but not for us. Thanksgiving meant that my immediate family invited others to our table, others who were also far from home. This started the tradition of long-distance calls to our family back in America. My mom had become steeped in the art of French cooking, so squash was replaced by pumpkin soufflé and in place of cream of mushroom soup, the green beans were sauteéd with toasted slivered almonds, shallots and garlic. Wine was now prominent on the table. My siblings and I would eat this gourmet food to our hearts content, and miraculously, our weight stayed the same. In place of Grandpa, Dad carved the turkey. We still walked around our block, though all the stores remained open and things were business as usual. Thanksgiving now meant family and friends.
 
Before I knew it, I was the one traveling home, which was now Hingham, Massachusetts. My siblings were already married, and sometimes they would be at our table, other years at their in-laws, so long-distance phone calls were part of the day. My parents had kept up both the tradition of inviting dear friends to the table, and the tradition of excellent French side dishes complementing the turkey. We made time to have pre-meal drinks with their beloved neighbors the Schutz. Nana and Grandpa had passed on by now, so we began toasting those “who are with us in spirit”. At this point, I learned to eat more slowly and purposefully, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to fit into my pants the next day if I ate to my heart’s content. We walked after dinner, bundling up as the wind whipped off the ocean. Thanksgiving now was an opportunity to reach out and catch up with those I seldom saw.
 
Then there was the first Thanksgiving after the pandemic. I was married to a gifted chef by now, had beautiful three children, and we had been in New Mexico for a year.  It was a big post-pandemic deal to invite our friends Marcia and Larry to the table, and frankly, I was grateful to have friends to invite. Moving during the pandemic had made it extremely hard to meet people. My husband now carved the turkey. My father had passed away six weeks prior, so we toasted to him and all those we could no longer be with. The long-distance phone calls were flying. I had plans to celebrate Thanksgiving with my mother and sister and her family that Saturday in Tucson. Two days later, though I sat with my sister and her family and it was a beautiful spread, I couldn’t eat, for Mom was not at the table. She was dying. I excused myself early from the meal, just to sit by her side as she lay unconscious in her hospice bed in the Memory Ward. Bereft, with her lying before me, I kept repeating two things: “I love you” and “thank you”. In the end, I finally understood that that’s all Thanksgiving really means.
 
Three years later, and we are excited to have ten at our table: the five of us, Jory’s mother, and four friends. I sent a myriad of texts to friends and family who are close in my heart. Jory will cook exquisite sides, the kinds Mom used to make. He will carve the turkey, where once my dad did. We will toast to those “who are with us in spirit”, the list of which grows longer every year. We will take the dogs for a walk after our meal, then return for dessert and a game. I want to soak up every minute, because I have all three of my kids still under the roof. This. Here. Now. We are creating the traditions our kids will remember. For all this too, will change. Someday, we will be the ones sitting at our kids’ tables, grateful for their hospitality.
 
In the end, the only Thanksgiving constants are the love and the gratitude. Everything else is just gravy on the turkey.
 
Best wishes for Thanksgiving, one full of love and gratitude.