Turkey Red, Turkey Blue....

Thanksgiving is upon us:  another reason to cook a great meal, gather friends and family, spend the day around the table.  Thanksgiving allows us to get dressed up, slow down, wait for it. 

The Thanksgiving I celebrate has no resemblance to the Turkey Day I was raised on.  In my mother's home, nobody was busy but the women.  My mother was stuffing her turkey with that Midwestern oyster dressing (oysters in Iowa: some things just cannot be explained...) while the rest of the house lazily gazed at the Macy's parade.  She was layering yams, pineapple, and marshmallows while the rest of the house casually perused football.  She was mixing green beans with that ubiquitous cream of mushroom soup, those French fried onions, while my brothers and I snickered at my father nodding off in his chair.  She was sliding that cranberry gel onto a pretty dish so that it could be passed endlessly around the table later while my brothers started a whispered wrestling match.

My mother would assign us poetry--one for each place setting.  "Turkey Notes," she called them.  My brothers and I would sit amid cheese and crackers, Howard Cosell, intermittent snoring and compose:  "Turkey Red, Turkey Blue, Turkey says, 'I love you.'"  I think my mother always got that one.  My oldest brother might scribble off:  "Turkey Red, Turkey Pink, Turkey says, 'You stink!'"  And slide it under my plate......

Those were the days.

There's no football in my house. (French guy!)  I keep my family busy while I create Thanksgiving 2.0, humming along to "Fly Me To the Moon." My oldest knows how to set a table, down to the 3 glasses and 2 forks.  My French man dutifully polishes the wine glasses, sets up the bar, vacuums the Everywhere.  My little ones wash windows.  Three times!

People tend to discuss food with me; they tell me their stories, their desires, their worries.  Yes, they also tend to ask me for advice.  What I hear is that Thanksgiving is a stressful food day:  people have expectations.  Some yearn for a meal from childhood.  Others insist that ice cream should be on the menu.  Vegetarians and vegans get to reinvent their meal, but so do we!

I left my mother's home 26 years ago.  There is still a part of me, nudging me right about now, that whispers:  "You're not serving marshmallowed yams?!?!?!"  There is still a part of me that thinks I'm insulting my mother.  I love her marshmallowed yams.  I even love those green beans.  It's that last tie we have, we women, with our mommies:  the menus we grew up with, that  daily display of affection.  

I have abandoned my Mother's Thanksgiving.   It took me a years to forgive myself.  I have decided that my little family deserves its own traditions:  a cheese course for my French man, a charcuterie plate for my little carnivore, roasted vegetables for my adolescent vegetarian, and pumpkin cheesecake with marshmallow topping to ease my conscience:  I have found a place for marshmallows in my menu!

Yes, there will be turkey, butterflied and rolled. The only cranberries, juiced, appear with vodka. I prefer brussels sprouts to green beans, carrot flan to mashed potatoes, Tarte Tatin to pumpkin pie. 

Maybe I'll even find the time to compose a Turkey Note!  I'll keep you posted!