A curious Thanksgiving with surprising slices of peace on earth

 

By Mary Kay Roth

My very first official “adult” Thanksgiving happened in upstate New York where I was a blushing bride, working on a newspaper, and had invited my new Ohio in-laws to dinner.

When I was growing up my mom had been a perfectionist cook who never allowed anyone in “her” kitchen, most especially over the holidays – a solid line etched between the living room shag carpeting and the lime-green kitchen linoleum, preventing anyone from entering her domain.  

As a result, I’m self-taught at cooking and baking – and that early Thanksgiving I was nervous and inexperienced. Thinking I was clever, I had purchased a goofy turkey apron and meticulously plotted a menu timeline. 

As scheduled I started by baking a pie early Thanksgiving morning and subsequently watched the piecrust fall off as I peered through the oven window.  Since I didn’t know you needed to cook sweet potatoes before you baked them in a casserole, everyone bit into rock-hard yams. The turkey was fine, it’s tough to kill a turkey, while the mashed potatoes were  oddly lumpy. Frankly, I can’t remember what we had for dessert … probably a bald, strange-looking pie.

I’ve come far since then. Long ago I found a lovely roast turkey recipe in an old Parade Magazine and each year my family now crowds into my home and pretty much demands the same obligatory dishes. I managed to add a dry brine to the turkey without rebellion, but whenever I add anything extra to the dressing my daughter quietly separates it on her plate and sniffs a bit.

More importantly, perhaps, I’ve learned much over the years about the timeless threads of tradition and custom, how they give us grounding. And yet despite those deeply instilled lessons, as the holidays approached this year I found myself anxious and worried … over politics, missing loved ones from our table, a heaviness hanging low.

I’d lost my way … at least, strangely enough, until I took a few holiday detours, a journey that started when I rented a cabin at Platte River State Park for this past Wednesday and Thursday.

I figured my stay would be completely solo, my own family not gathering until Friday, and everyone else insanely busy over Thanksgiving.  Strangely enough, folks stopped by. We ate appetizers and hiked trails and lit fires and drank wine and even broke the steadfast Roth directive – we actually listened to Christmas music BEFORE Thanksgiving. OMG. 

Thanksgiving morning, I walked around the park at dawn all alone, getting lost as I always do but stumbling upon an old wooden tower.  And as I climbed to the top I found a brilliant sunrise peering over the treetops, deer grazing beneath me and squawking geese above.  

Throughout that day, my dog Pip and I tromped around the park, holiday lights strewn at the occasional cabin, the smell of turkey everywhere.  One ambitious fellow had towed an entire U-Haul filled with Thanksgiving fixings to his cabin.  It was tradition, he explained, and invited Pip and me to join his family for dinner.  We graciously declined, instead lighting a final fire that evening as a few snowflakes sailed down and we listened to the silence of the night.

The next day I returned to the raucous busyness of Lincoln and roasted a turkey for a Friday house-full of family.  It wasn’t exactly Norman Rockwell.  Pip barked furiously at everyone arriving at the door.  I sliced open a finger cutting onions, forgot to assign anyone the task of bringing beverages and realized – fairly late – no one coming to dinner knew how to carve a turkey. 

And yet, somehow, we found our way …. just as we have for decades.

Family members hugged hello – scribbled on the annual “Blessings” poster – played the Who-Am-I game with Post-it notes stuck to their foreheads.  And, as always, in that grand finale of closing meal preparation, we all crammed into the kitchen as I stirred the gravy, my son mashed potatoes,  grandchildren bounced about helter-skelter and my daughter attempted to carve the turkey while watching a how-to YouTube video.

Believe it or not – embracing all puppy and carving catastrophes – the feast was served in fine form.  No politics were spoken. No doomsday forecasts or  agonizing over the next four years. And when we went around the table per practice to count our blessings, we tallied up quite a few. 

So, as I write this blog early Sunday morning, I’m not completely sure what I learned over Thanksgiving this year.  But it feels like I learned something important.

Despite the pall of politics and the collision of family ballot choices, we still came together in a miraculous moment of thanks – in an unexpected and glorious mix of new and old tradition. 

Through the silence of a sunrise and the firelight of night, I found my familiar sense of belonging and faith – the comfort of ritual, conversation and good cheer – the salvation of connection.  

I found my steady heart again … my own slice of peace on earth … when loved ones hold you close and you hold them right back.

And yeah, yeah, I know, the barrage of news will continue to break our hearts. I know it’s not really quite this simple.

But at least for a few days over Thanksgiving, perhaps it is entirely enough.