It saddens me to think about this coming Thanksgiving. Years past, my home was bustling with parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, boyfriends and girlfriends. All twenty-four of them arriving with their favorite morsel in tow, one-by-one opening the oven to see how the turkey was coming along. The sounds of laughter filled my home as everyone greeted each other around the punch bowl. I looked forward to it each and every year; stressed and prepared for it for days.
The honor of the baton passed to me after my mother died 27 years ago. Growing up, one of my fondest memories was being in the kitchen with my mother preparing for the feast, and she taught me well. I watched as she massaged the turkey with softened butter like it was a child, very gentle. She took her time, didn’t rush anything. She always had a plan. Three days before the cranberry-applesauce was made, two days before the stuffing, the day before the mushrooms were stuffed, the sweet potatoes par-boiled, and her famous apple pie and cheesecake were baking. Before we went to sleep the dining room table was set and all the platters were out and ready to be filled. I sprung out of bed Thanksgiving morning with anticipation of the day to come. On my way to the kitchen I could hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and my mother humming along as she was cooking. There was usually close to thirty people coming to dinner each year but you’d never ever see her sweat. It was like she was preparing dinner for four. Not an ounce of stress. And it all went as planned with everyone so stuffed yet waiting in anticipation for dessert. Her dinners were perfect. Everything was cooked just right.
I did my best to follow in her footsteps. She didn’t leave any recipes; they were all in her head. When I tried to write things down and asked how much parsley, or how much salt she said, “Watch me, I don’t measure, I just know.” And she did. She knew exactly how to season her food and what to make. When you were invited to Anna’s for dinner, you never turned it down, as it was a meal you would always remember. When she was diagnosed with cancer there was only months left to her life. The tradition would die with her I thought. I vowed that I wouldn’t let it happen.
I picked up the baton and made dinner every Thanksgiving. Okay so it wasn’t the dinner that my mother made but I did my best. Every now and then I would hear, “Pass the salt,” or “These don’t taste like mom’s,” and it hurt like a knife in my gut but they were probably right. My food would never taste like my mother’s. Nevertheless I continued to cook and family continued to come. That is until this year. I’m not cooking this year. Everyone is going in other directions. The children, now married, are spending the holiday with their new families, and my relatives are not able to make the long trip up here to Connecticut. For the first time in many years we won’t be having a Thanksgiving celebration in my home. When I discussed my sadness with my sister, she said that the children grew up and have their own lives now, and that change is good.
Change can be good except for when it comes to tradition and family. And when it comes to holidays all we think about are tradition and family. At least that’s what I think about. I fear that the baton is no longer being passed. We are no longer the children of 1950s mothers who spent their lives in the kitchen doting on their families. We are now children of career moms who are growing up in daycare centers and afterschool care. Children who eat microwavable food or prepared food our mothers picked up on the way home.
The holidays are a time when we can bring tradition back into our lives as our mothers and their mothers have done, traditions that we can pass down to our children. Bake some cookies with your child by your side, teach them how to make grandma’s famous apple pie, and teach them about the importance of family and love, because in this ever changing world of careers and commitments being put ahead of family, the importance of love and family is fading and this change isn’t good. Use the holidays as a chance to make memories because time passes and children grow up but their memories will last a lifetime.
I no longer have my mother with me but I have the memory of her love and her traditions. So whether I cook for the three of us (my son Chad, my husband and myself), or whether we go to my sister’s for dinner it doesn’t matter. The Macy’s Day Parade will be on, I will be baking my mother’s delicious apple pie and I will be thinking of her and the fond memories that we made together.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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