Passing the torch

Lot been going on the last few days, getting ready to host Thanksgiving.  The type of cleaning that I should do more regularly (dusting the curtain rods, Windexing the chandelier bulbs, mopping underneath the sofa), and of course planning a meal for a couple dozen people.  There were spreadsheets involved.  ‘Nuff said.

This is a bittersweet experience for me.  Thanksgiving has always been my mother’s holiday.  When I was growing up, she would always pull off an incredible Thanksgiving dinner – and when we were living god knows where away from family, which was most of my childhood, Thanksgiving was a celebration of friendship, because the people who joined us around the twelve-foot walnut table were a collection of folks who didn’t have anywhere else to go – some of whom we knew better than others, but all of whom were grateful for a good meal and the company.  

This year, though, she finally admitted she couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t get her tiny house ready to pack in all those people and manage the logistics of a meal that runs to twelve dishes, plus appetizers and pies.  The goddamn cancer has sapped too much of her strength. 

So have it here, I said.  We have the room.  I do know how to cook.  I started suggesting this some weeks ago but it took her a while to realize she really did need to pass the torch.  

But realize she did, and then she devoted her not-inconsiderable force of will to helping.   

There were twenty-two of us around the table – four generations, from my grandmother down to my three-year-old first cousin once removed.    

Everyone brought food.  There were two turkeys, ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, turnips, squash, sweet potatoes, peas & pearl onions, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce, and seven kinds of pie.  The battalion of aunts did their usual blink-and-you-miss-it kitchen cleanup afterward.    

It was a lovely event.

My house is very clean.

And I have three whole days off to recover.