Thanksgiving: The Postscript

REMEMBER MY STORY of Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde, the transformation of a fairly decent human being (me) into the Stuffing Nazi?

When Thanksgiving rolled around the year after that Great Karmic Retribution, I was pregnant again, and throwing up every day.  More than once. (Thank you, little Rock, my daughter-to-be.) Her future brother, the River, was now 3. We had moved to a new house–a week before the holiday. I couldn’t even pretend that I could handle hosting, and so against all my inclinations, I had no choice but to embrace a Thanksgiving not of my own design.

The universe got a last laugh in:  When I asked for a dish to bring, to contribute to the dinner, I was assigned–salad. (I make a great salad, but still. Salad.) But to my amazement I had a great time. I laughed at family gossip. I didn’t have to clean up. My kid watched Finding Nemo and did flying gymnastics with his step-cousins, and had a blast. We drove home, in a deep quiet dark, sated and happy.

I had to say the words my husband likes to hear best (OK, there are other words he likes better, but these are up there): “You were right.”

Learning to contribute, and not control, with a little help from my friends both old and new

Almost two years ago, we left our home in L.A. to forge a new life in the Northeast. Now, all our relations are too far away to make a big, family Thanksgiving a reality. Last year, our first in our new home, we practically threw ourselves on the mercy of longtime friends and made an emergency roadtrip to their warm welcome.  I brought homemade cranberry sauce, and wine. That’s it. But my friend and I cooked together, and laughed uproariously.

This year? Another friend, a relatively new one, in our new town, invited us over, growing her crowd from 19 to 24. When she realized just how big the party was going to be, she agreed to let me bring some contributions. (Apparently this was against precedent–the hostess is a spectacular cook, and, like me, likes to do it herself.  Bless her, she’s infinitely more graceful on this subject than I.)  We brought our favorite smoked turkey. Creamed onions. A broccoli puree I always serve at my Thanksgiving table–whenever I have one.

When we showed up, she was stressed: two turkeys, two stuffings, six pies, too little oven space, and someone had turned off the water under the meant-to-be-boiling potatoes.  But later, as she sat at the head of her long, long table, she glowed.

“I love this, ” she said. “I love seeing all these people I love here, eating this crazy meal.”  Among those people were her college roommate, a couple of former colleagues, a best friend or three, her husband and his buddies, and new friends: us.

I was thinking of all the things I am so deeply thankful for. My family. My beautiful, funny, loving children.  My crazy, passionate, talented, exasperating husband.  My girlfriends, old and new, who have become the closest things to sisters I’ll ever have.  All the people who let me screw up, over and over and over again, and keep taking me back.

Maybe it’s because I’m a really, really good cook?

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