Thanksgiving with the ancestors
I’ve never been a fan of holidays as a whole and with the history of it’s true origin being screamed from the rooftops by Indigenous and marginalized groups as a whole every year. The good old American version has truly and rightfully so lost it’s luster. So no big groups or parties this year. I decided instead to cook the entire meal myself and also eat it all myself.
I know that overall I am a really good cook but I will say that eating an entire thanksgiving (minus the turkey) alone was not as enjoyable as I previously thought. While I was preparing the ingredients and following the recipes that have been in my family for years. I felt a bit nostalgic and not in the good way. I was reminded of my grandmother who mostly raised me and what she would be doing that day.
Thanksgivng in my house was a 2 day affair. Day 1 was all about the desserts, Sweet potato pie, Lemon cake and peach cobbler. All of this had to be done before the real show the next day because we only had one oven. The house would waft with the scents of sugar and cinnamon, it was always hard not to sneak a slice or two.
She would say if you’re not gonna help then get out of the kitchen, you taking up room. I remembered sitting in the living room watching cartoons and picking the greens. I hated doing it and let’s be honest most of us did. But I’d be a proud little thing carrying the torn greens to the kitchen in the abnormally large silver bowl back to the kitchen. She’d say thank you and pinch my cheeks and then toss my bounty in the sink and begin cleaning the greens with Dawn dish soap. I was always confused why the soap but she explained it’s the only way to get all the sand off the greens. She would pull me over and show me how to clean them good.
Day 2 the sweet smell of cinnamon would be replaced by onions and sage. She got up early, way before the sun even arose from it’s slumber to being preparing the meal we would all share later that day. The pots rumbled with movement and with each sliver of escaped steam you caught a glimpse of what was cooking. Giggles and laughter filled the air, words I didn’t know the meaning of at the time filled the room and swirled the air mixing with the intoxicating scents. I felt like a grown up in the midst of it all, the world seemed to fall away around us and in no time the symphony of rumbling pots went silent and their contents were moved to cavernous metal bowls where they can finally see the light.
The food glistened with a sheen of love and time. They were put to rest in the oven while we washed away the evidence of the day. Prim and proper was the only way we were allowed to partake in the feast in her house. She disappered in the large pantry and the sounds glass clinking could be heard behind the doors. She only ever brought out the best crystal and china plates when we had family get togethers.
We’d sit around the small table in the kitchen dressed to the 9s, forks clinking across the delicate china. Finally enjoying the labor of the day and after a couple bites the ‘itis hit and you’re ready for the nap to end all naps. As I stirred, simmered and seasoned I was brought back to that very kitchen as a child. And my home was not filled with the same laughter and words but music from a playlist I chose to fill the silence.
It was my choice to have a solo thanksgiving but I guess that I wasn’t expecting to miss all the fuss. The thing about grief is that it hits you when you least expect it. My grandmother has been gone for almost 12 years but I still miss her like she just left yesterday. And instead of being sad this year I chose to honor her and thank her in my own way. By making the same recipes she made and lighting a little candle in her memory.
