TABLE TALK: The Thanksgiving Tradition

by Mary Sharry
Sun contributor

Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go, building tradition with ritual feasts, the memories warm us so. Our extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins would gather at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The certainty of the Thanksgiving dinner brought with it a measure of well-being. Then, all seemed right with the world.
The traditional meal was predictable from the carrots, celery, and olives in the relish tray, to the Parker House rolls, the Waldorf salad, and the pumpkin pie. There was the freshly ironed white linen tablecloth, lit candles in blue glass holders, and the Noritake china which Grandma brought out of the cabinet but once a year.
The memory lingers. What with aunts, uncles, and cousins to feed, the turkey weighed well over twenty pounds. Grandma began the process the night before when she baked pies and roasted the turkey. Never mind the food warnings of today. She kept the roasted turkey in the pantry off the kitchen. Perhaps in November it was cold enough back there to keep the dangerous bacteria from forming. I don’t recall anyone ever getting sick after our meal. I do remember how she would slip back there a time or two the night before, just to peek at the bird. I’d join her just for that delicious whiff when she raised the roaster lid.
By noon, on Thanksgiving Day, everyone had arrived. The eating arrangement put the adults in one room, children in the other. Extension leaves had been placed into the dining room table which was reserved for the adults. Grandpa, of course, would be at the head of that table where the carving knife and fork were laid out like artist’s tools. Around the corner in the kitchen my cousins and I would sit at the old oak table. It was a mark of adulthood when one of us was moved into the dining room.
I was thankful that my cousin Linda would be sitting with me. She was a year older than I, quite pretty, and, well, developed; her figure was enhanced by sophisticated clothes, an Angora sweater tucked inside the waistband of a pleated skirt. She tottered about on spike heels. I wore my one-inch heels, and even in those wobbled awkwardly. I treasured a girlfriend’s bra, outgrown and handed down to me, which I now wore, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice. I had stuffed it with Kleenex.
Everyone was summoned into the dining room. The uncles from the living room where they watched TV, switching channels from Macy’s to the J.L. Hudson parade. Linda and I had gone upstairs to show each other our latest ballet steps and poses. She let me look through her wallet which bulged with photos of high school classmates, and at the darkest secret of all – the Winston cigarette pack concealed beneath a cloth hair band. Someone hollered up the steps for us to come down. Two aunts who were on the side porch, probably discussing ways to eliminate their stretch marks (I’d heard their conversation the last Thanksgiving,) caught the children who ran outdoors and back inside every so often asking when dinner would be ready.
From the kitchen Grandma directed various family members to carry serving bowls into the dining room. There was the dish piled high with bread stuffing. You could smell the sage. In another bowl rivulets of butter ran like channels down the mound of mashed potatoes. Aunt Virginia brought in her corn casserole, creamy in texture and topped with delectable bread crumbs. There were green beans over which slivered almonds had been scattered, a dish of baked yellow squash, the gravy boat brimming , the rolls hot from the oven, and a sweetened cranberry relish chock full of walnut bits and tangy orange peel all ground together. These dishes and bowls were carried by the aunts into the dining room, and placed either on the buffet, or on the big table leaving room for the turkey.
We all gathered around the table. The smallest children leaned from their parents arms and pointed toward the doorway. Grandma, still wearing an apron over her print dress, came in carrying the platter with the roasted turkey. She placed the bird, reheated and basted now to golden perfection, in front of Grandpa. He bowed his head.
We took our cue, and he began his prayer asking blessings on all who were there, those not, and for the bountiful food which we were about to receive. He considered the poor, the hungry, all creatures great and small. The prayer went on. Cousins looked across the table at each other. Making faces, our shoulders heaved with suppressed giggles. My mother turned to me, a smile behind the hushing finger she placed to her lips. Steam rose from the potatoes. Grandma cleared her throat, emphatically. Grandpa ended the prayer.
There would be a last minute scurry back to the kitchen for a forgotten spoon, say, or the gravy ladle. Grandpa began to carve. Uncle Maurice offered advice. Grandpa asked him if he would like to do the job. Everyone laughed. Dark meat went on one platter, white on another. A chorused m-m-m-m-m drifted across the table. The smallest children echoed the sound. Dishes were passed. Our plates, those of us eating in the kitchen, were filled first. Too bad for the child who didn’t want his food to touch any other food on the plate. It was hard to avoid overlaps. Did anyone really mind?
The two youngest children would probably play with their mashed potatoes. They refused to try the gravy, didn’t want white meat. The dressing had no appeal whatsoever. They made faces when Aunt Betty tried to spoon some onto their plates, and pointed to the colorful foods – red cranberries, green beans.
They sat at their very own table against the wall in the kitchen. Their drinking cups had handles on each side. Aunt Betty sat with them to help them eat. She tried to carry on a conversation through the kitchen wall with the adults on the other side, but gave up and asked us questions about school, clothes, and the latest dance craze.
Cousin, Kalynn, told her knock-knock joke.
“Knock-Knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana.”
“Banana who?”
“Banana Split.”
“Knock-Knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Orange.”
“Orange Who?”
“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?”
Seconds? That was part of the tradition. Going back for more. “Save room for dessert,” someone said. Aunt Irene had brought a cherry pie, Virginia, one of mince meat, another of apple laced heavily with cinnamon. Grandma had baked two pumpkin pies. Aunt Dorothy brought a Sanders cake. How could we eat dessert when we felt so full? We were Detroiters, right down to our Vernor’s Ginger Ale, and the uncles would pour glasses of it after dinner which was sure to bring forth enormous belches.
In the dining room the grown-ups discussed politics over scraps left on their plates. All day the sky had been gray. Now faint snow came down in the fading afternoon light. In the kitchen our jokes veered from the knock-knocks. We asked a younger child to spell gyp and then say funny. Grandma came to the kitchen doorway. “Bundle up. Go outside. Run around the house. Seven times,” she said. “You big girls, too. Take off those high-heeled shoes before you break your necks. I hope you brought something else to wear on your feet” She looked under the table where Linda and I sat, our ankles rolled to the sides like barroom floozies. “Go on,” she shooed. “Out.” We went.
The tables had been cleared by the time we came back indoors. Aunt Betty was washing off the silverware. Desserts were carried into the dining room, even a bowl of Jell-O, along with Grandma’s newest discovery — Cool Whip.
Everyone had at least two slices of pie on their plates. The men began to converse in the language of football. It was suggested they carry their pie and coffee into the living room and turn on the TV.
The women were reluctant to leave the table; they invited me and Linda to joint them. It was time to catch up on conversation. They discussed past Thanksgivings, and remembered Uncle Earl who had died a few years before. He had been a tailor and made suits for the Ford and Fisher families of Grosse Pointe. Aunt Betty tapped at her pie crust and recalled the reason for Great Grandma Feighner’s flaky crusts. She used lard. Someone mentioned a new diet, one that really worked. Grapefruit. This was the language of tradition. This was how we learned our histories. We were secure in the knowledge that this feast would be repeated over and over.