I fell out of bed at six-thirty and, for the twentieth consecutive Thanksgiving I set about getting the outdoor pit fired up and cutting pieces of sugar cane to supply the smoke. It was a cold morning, which allowed me to brine the turkey in an ice chest outside, instead of taking up a lot of room in the refrigerator.
My determination to keep up with the tides of dirty dishes and utensils distracted me from the big projects. I almost put the turkey on the Big Green Egg without stuffing it with onions, rosemary, celery, and orange and apple sections. Later, I found that I had patted the brown sugar beautifully on the ham, but I had forgotten to apply my carefully-made root beer glaze first! I clearly should have made coffee first thing.
With the big protein projects in their respective cookers, I went back to the constant cleanup, trying to keep up with the Marys, but never quite doing so. At least there was almost always a place to work.
Honestly, I couldn't figure out exactly what Mary Ann was making. I did know better than to challenge any of it. She had The Boy cutting rutabagas and beets into large chunks. She then added a stalk of brussels sprouts and some other vegetables to the pan, all to be roasted somewhere, somehow. It was an interesting object, that pan. Everybody who showed up commented on it. But I never saw anyone actually eat anything from it.
Mary Ann thinks that way. She baked what she called a spice cake because, she told me, "People like you will like it." If there is one dead giveaway that a dish will not be especially good, it's that the cook has no plans of trying it him or herself. (This is why you will have to twist my arm to give you a recipe for shrimp Creole.)
On the other hand, she fried some amazing meat pies, which she loves. So did everybody else. There were just the right size and heft for appetizers, and were just spicy and fat enough. Even the pie dough–which she made from scratch, a job I avoid if I can–was top-notch. The meat pies went quickly.
Jude and I conspired to bake oysters on those newfangled stainless-steel fake oyster shells. He had bought a bunch of curly parsley by mistake, and I ground it up with some garlic, herbs and parmesan cheese to make the sauce. Jude and I liked them, but they were hard to serve. Once they got cold, they died. The same was true of some crab claws to which we applied the same sauce.
Mary Ann kept on making side dishes. She was already talking about what she would do with the leftovers. (Leftovers are her favorite dish.) Mary Leigh continued to bake. Some chocolate petits fours were beautiful. They would be quickly devoured later. A chocolate mousse pie was equally inspired and popular. I guess that proves the point. Mary Leigh loves chocolate, which is why her chocolate things are better than her spice cake.
My little sister Lynn was the first to arrive, as she usually is. But it would be almost two hours before the next guests pulled up. This was a godsend. Two extra hours to finish everything! We may plug that in formally next year.
I kept washing dishes, stopping only to make a batch of mashed potatoes. I could do that sitting down, and I needed to sit. A lower back problem I've had sporadically and rarely since my twenties decided to flare up today. (Actually, I think it was caused by the ten hours I'd already been on my feet washing dishes, two days running.) Mary Ann, who has her own, more serious back problem (she's still in a back brace) seemed suspicious of my sudden imitation of her disability.
On this my family is in total agreement: Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday. This Thanksgiving, despite the usual chaos, food failures and orthopedic problems, was the best we've had in a long time, or perhaps ever. The dozen attendees in their teens and twenties came together with a camaraderie of fun and laughter deep into the evening. Our nieces Eileen and Jennifer were there with two little kids each, plus a baby. With our two big, mellow dogs and a cat who distrusts nobody, they were having a ball. The adults had plenty to talk about, not the least of which was how wonderful it was to see the next generation enjoying one another's company. Underneath that was the speculation as to which of them will be married this time next year.
Meanwhile, I kept cleaning up until I could no longer stand up without great pain. The cheesecake disappeared. The café au lait and the Beaujolais Nouveau flowed like water. And the roasted vegetable platter continued to be ignored.
Thank you, God, for all this joy!
Written by Tom Fitzmorris November 28, 2013 03:34 in
