2 posts from November 2006
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All right, someone needs to show me how to align pictures. I just tried for ten minutes and couldn't figure it out.
(I actually wrote this at our last AKA Scriptores meeting on November 21.)
To say that thou art beauty
Would be to speak amiss
And save it be my duty
You hardly would I kiss,
But since thou art my dinner
Thou plain and homely squash
I'll treat you like a winner
And not with icy frost.
I'll christen you a hero
Of all the side-dish sort
The children will not fear--no--
To put you on their fork!
For though you're stout and pimply
With hue of muckish-green
You're still the best, and, simply,
The only one I've seen.
At first I thought a Hubbard,
But knew that couldn't be
Nor a body-snatcher pod
From that one old movie.
But then I thought, "Who am I?
To put you in a box
Or to confine you inside
A humble-bodied squash?"
For never have I beheld
Your inner squash within
That thick and hard and heavy
And pukish-greenish skin.
Nor can I fully judge you
Until you're cooked and served
And I can at last taste you
And know if you have verve.
Mmmmm . . . Thanksgiving. Turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries, fried plantains, and tomato-flavored rice. This Thanksgiving I celebrated with my friend Kris and a bunch of Mt Holyoke College girls from Ghana. Now don't get me wrong, when it comes to Thanksgiving, I'm all for adventure. Many repetitive years of having Thanksgiving at our house growing up have long since convinced me that family is not all that it's cracked up to be. I mean, my grandma was always a welcome guest, but our other few Aunts and Uncle's-in-law (or vice-versa) were not as readily agreeable. It's just awkward to make conversation with a distant cousin who still sports a mullet and calls you Alison. And babysitting the few kids gets a bit boring as well. There was that one time that my Aunt's 70-year-old boyfriend taught us all how to play Pinnochle, which diffinately rates as one of the best. But by far and hands down our best Thanksgiving celebration was when my dad's cousin Jimmy came.
Now, we had heard stories of Jimmy from childhood. He was the kid who had tried to steel my teenaged dad's pidgeons under his shirt and was surprised when my dad called him on it. He was used to getting away with anything from his mother until well into adulthood when it was too late to change his character. I believe I was around seventeen when we got the news that Jimmy would be coming. I wasn't sure how I should act since he took advantage of his own mother and probably would be uncouth, right? Well, as it turned out, he was simply hysterically funny. He had my brother, sister, and myself practically rolling from the beginning, and we quickly accepted him into our family. Odd that I don't remember specifically anything that he said, but it was nearly ten years ago. The memory of this Thanksgiving was so etched into our minds by the time the next November rolled around that we started asking each other if we should invite him or if he'd be around. My dad, happening to pick up the paper one day in a bored moment, called out surprisedly, "Listen to this!" He then read us a news story about a bank robbery that had occured in Salem the preceding day. This man had entered a bank, demanded money, and driven off in an old, dumpy car that could barely do 50 mph. The culprit? You guessed it, Jimmy. The car was his mother's. "Well, I guess we won't be inviting Jimmy this year," said my dad. "It's too bad, I was really looking forward to it." We were all dissappointed.
The next exciting thing that I ever heard happening at a Langsather Thanksgiving was when my Aunt-in-law Connie literally dove down our stairs to catch her baby Charissa who had been somehow knocked down them by her ADHD and undisciplined son. I heard that it really was quite the scene, but I had moved on to bigger and, at least, further away Thanksgivings.
My first Thanksgiving away from home was spent in Pennsylvania. I was attending Hillsdale College in Southern Michigan and I jumped at the chance to go somewhere as far away and exotic as--Pennsylvania. It was just her family: parents, sister, sister's fiance, and brother. She warned me about her brother, saying that he was 6'6" and funny. I'm still not quite sure what she meant, and he couldn't have been that tall, but I was at least prepared enough not to be surprised when he sat on my lap.
The next Thanksgiving I happily went home with my roommate Anneli to somewhere in Mid-Michigan. I had heard her tell all about her grandma and she had described the food as being "wonderful." Ready and anxious for a real extended family celebration, I was more than a little dissappointed by the family's lack of friendliness. I believe there was only one family member who actually talked to me beyond the initial introduction. And when I saw them get out the plastic utensils, it was all I could do to say nothing. "It's ok," I told myself, "she told me her grandma can cook." Minutes later when she came through the door, I had my doubts. She had on a hot pink sweatshirt with lace on the bottom and hot pink sweatpants to match. Her hair was dyed blonde and I believe she had similar-colored lipstick. Needless to say, she had bought the pecan and pumpkin pies that she brought. The saving grace of the meal was actually the deep-fried turkey, which was really quite moist and crispy.
I think it was this last Thanksgiving experience that convinced me that simple was best. The following year I opted to stay in Hillsdale with my cousin Brett, his fiance Jane, and his friend Paul. His friends Dusty and Salongo also came over. I brought a pumpkin pie, Jane made a pie using a wine bottle for a rolling-pin, Paul, who was Harvard-bound, made the mashed potatoes, and we all tackled the turkey together. I probably also made the yifta (layered cranberries, whipped cream, graham cracker) which I usually make. It was a simple meal. We drank wine and feasted. The turkey was pink in the center, we discovered, but we didn't eat that part.
The next year found me in Western Massachusetts by myself. I was very grateful to my new-found friend, Kat, who I'd met at the library. Originally from Iowa, she had invited a fellow Mid-Western friend over who was nannying in New York. Both vegetarian, I was elated with the opportunity to have a Thanksgiving vegi-style. I'm sure we had some interesting side dishes; all I remember is the stuffed squash. It was delicious.
By the time my second New England Thanksgiving rolled around, I had some local friends. My first and closest friend, Elaine, invited me to her vegetable-farming family's Thanksgiving. She regaled me with descriptions of her mother's homemade French-Canadian stuffing, sweet potato pie, her father's slurping his food, and her brother Fred. I think she tried to set me up with Fred, but that's no surprise: she tries to set everybody up with him. He's a cool guy, very quiet, depressed maybe, and not unlike Tom Hanks in many ways. Anyway, I finally got my chance to see an authentic Massachusetts Thanksgiving although, to be sure, there could have been more extended family. There was Glenn the older brother with his wife and two children and his stories about something military. And one of Elaine's sisters with her new husband. I remember them well, for after the meal we all had to gather around the extensive technology in Fred's room to see every flower, plant, and view from the window that they had seen in some exotic island. Everything was delicious and perfect. The turkey, the potatoes, the corn, butternut squash, acorn squash, pumpkin and sweet potato pies, chocolate and coconut pies (although I was surprised that they treated the Bisquick recipe as dessert when I make it for breakfast sometimes), the stuffing (made from the finest French-Canadian pork instead of bread--real stuffing) was not as satisfying to me as my usual stove-top fare, but I didn't mention it.
Last year for Thanksgiving my cousin and best friend, Ingrid, was down visiting from Michigan. This caused some misunderstanding and consequent explaining since she had just finally married her guy that September, but, what can I say? She missed me, and while she was with me, we chose not to think about repercussions. (The whole in-law, mamma's boy phenomenon is complicated and not to be discussed here, but let me just say that Ingrid did everything above-board and didn't make any promises that she didn't keep.) So, we went to Lois's house for our Thanksgiving celebration. It was an ecclectic affair. Lois is on staff at our church, Mercy House, and she invited all the stragglers. In addition to several of her housemates and some of their parents, a young couple from church and their baby girl came who had also invited a couple who had an infant. This couple and their friends and, of course, Ingrid and I all happened to be from the Christian homeschooled/private school sector and it turned out that we had played volleyball against this girl who we had just met. She and her husband had just been to Niger and Nigeria and they told us all about their experience in the poorest and most wealthy countries in Africa. It was fun to have Thanksgiving in that beautiful, turn-of-the-century house with a family member and friends. There was plenty of delicious food and I still want to get that squash recipe from Jenny. Ing and I made my traditional yifta which, although Norwegian in origin, oddly enough is passed down from the non-Norwegian side of the family. We made it together in my kitchen before we came, and, although I don't remember particulars, I do remember that we had a very enjoyable time laughing and no doubt having the usual mishaps that always occur whenever Ingrid and I are in the kitchen together.
So this year when I realized that there was only a week left before the big day and I still had no plans I hastily said "yes" to an invitation from Lois although feeling a sense of misgiving about it. It just wouldn't fit into my Thanksgiving pattern. Deep down I felt that there must be something else going on that I should be a part of. And that is why, shortly after my friend Kris told me about her grand scheme of making a Thanksgiving dinner for the Mount Holyoke girls who couldn't go home, I called her up to ask if I could be a part of it. (I also called Lois to give my regrets.) I showed up on Wednesday evening with a sack of potatoes (I couldn't let her make instant) and a glass bowl for the cranberry concoction. Her friend Patrick came by and we all went to the store for eggs, more cranberries, and whipping cream. They mixed the pumpkin pie filling while I looked at a book and watched the cranberries pop (or maybe I wasn't paying any attention at all). An hour later we were back at the store buying stuffing. Kris was a bit weirded out by the idea of actually stuffing the bird, so I offered to do that part: I wanted my stuffing to be perfect. To say that we cooked the meal 50/50 would be a lie: she did most of the work, and by the time I was up, the turkey was in the oven, fully-stuffed. We watched part of a movie before getting down to work. While she was working on candied sweet-potatoes, I was peeling the bag of Idahos. And while I was making the yifta, she was making the rest of the stuffing and getting the Pillsbury rolls on the cooking sheets. Our first guest arrived when I was mashing the potatoes and she was putting the finishing touches on the turkey and opening a few cans of veggetables. And then she impressed us all by calling her mom and figuring out how to make gravy.
Another girl came with soup made from tomatoes, peanut butter and chicken. Two more girls arrived and we began eating. A little later the rest of our guests arrived one with a boyfriend from New York, one carrying fried plantains, and another carrying reddish and vegetable-laden rice. Aside from the American boyfriend Nile and Nykey who I happily found out was from North London, the rest of the bunch were from Ghana. They were lively and fun. We ate and played some add-on word games. A humorous moment occured when during the sentence game we had ". . . sometimes I cry because boys are _____" and he refused to add a word even when we all voted that he should. We also watched Crash because Phyllis wanted to. The multi-ethnic group added to the experience. An apt metaphor for the meal would be the plantains placed next to the New England squash, and I must add that when you can have fried plantains for Thanksgiving, why ever wouldn't you?
And this sums up another year, another Thanksgiving, another story. What will next year hold? I don't know, and I wouldn't want to know. I can only say that I sincerely hope that it is something--well--different.
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