The Thanksgiving Epiphany

There is something special, empowering even, about a woman's first solo Thanksgiving dinner preparation. I wrote the following two years ago, when I still believed (i.e., when I didn't know the truth). Wait . . . who am I kidding; I already knew the truth, I just chose to have faith. And though I paid the price, I gained some hidden blessings in the process.

For example, I've been very blessed to spend this year's Thanksgiving with people who genuinely care about me, instead of merely acting. But, the nostalgia of the following Thanksgiving will never be lost, despite the fact that the effort was for a lost cause.

Best wishes for a safe and happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

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The Thanksgiving Epiphany

It's one week before Thanksgiving. I sit on the sofa, looking anxiously at my mother, who sits in her chair across the living room. I'm scribbling furiously in a small, blue, spiral bound pad the family recipes she is firing at me, one after another. I review my notes, four pages of cooking instructions and one page long grocery list, and I must look perplexed because mother sighs and asks, "What's wrong?"

"The turkey cooks at 350º, too? Or should it be 375º?" I'm overwhelmed by the amount of ingredients on each page, the number of steps involved, and the cooking temperatures.

"Yes, 350º. Almost everything you'll cook will be in a 350º oven," she replies, only just showing her exasperation at my ineptness in kitchen-related matters.

She continues her dictation; I continue my shorthand. She repeats, and I erase and rewrite. She reminds me that since I'm going out of town for Thanksgiving, we need to make the cornbread for the dressing the night before I leave. I add self-rising yellow corn meal to the shopping list as my mother explains the difference between yellow and white. All the while, she reassures me that I can call her on the phone and she will offer guidance should I need it. We agree that my first call will be at 5:00 a.m., Thanksgiving morning, when it's time to begin cooking the turkey.

At the grocery store, I mistakenly pick up sweet yellow corn meal instead of plain, what our recipe calls for. It was the only yellow meal the store stocked, so I thought it was correct by default. When we make the cornbread that night, my mother is discouraged by the possibility that the recipe will fail, and gives me yet another page of notes on recipe repair.

The next day, with my faulty cornbread carefully wrapped and tucked next to my priceless notepad in a box of borrowed kitchen supplies, I journey from Georgia to Fort Campbell, Kentucky to begin my first "solo" Thanksgiving dinner.

"My mom's turkey is darker."

During the drive, I call and ask my husband to put the pumpkin pie in the oven. When I arrive late that evening, I lay out the cornbread and various other bread slices for drying. I notice that the turkey isn't quite thawed in the refrigerator, so I remove it and place it in the sink. It's too late to begin any other preparation for the next day, so I set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. and go to sleep. I fail to notice that the pumpkin pie was cooked and wrapped in foil, just as I had asked, and sitting on the counter, instead of in the refrigerator as the box suggests.

The alarm wakes me after what seems like only a few minutes. I stumble to the kitchen to check on the turkey, and make my first call to my mother. "Okay, you have to wash the turkey, inside and out. Take out the giblets and the neck." She waits as I juggle the phone to my ear and unwrap the turkey.

"Isn't he already clean?" I ask, swiftly losing the battle with the twelve-pound turkey. I find a large plastic bag of something in the bird's cavity and struggle to remove it. Then I find another large plastic bag of some other part lodged in the other end of the bird. "I can't get this bag out."

My mother, hearing the valiant thumping of the bird in the steel sink, tells me to unhook the legs so the bag will come out, and that the turkey is most likely a "her." I solve the leg puzzle only to find that the bag inside is still partly frozen, and it clearly doesn't want to fit through the hole in the cavity. "Wash the bird, and don't overanalyze." I realize I can't wash the bird and talk on the phone, so I call mother back in 30 minutes once the deed is done, and the bird is ready to be bagged. She walks me through buttering the turkey with strategically placed pats, but not before I try to cover the entire bird by rubbing it with the stick of butter. I cut the celery to place inside the bird without incident. Then I wrestle the turkey into a plastic bag that my husband suggested I use, since that's how his mother cooks hers.

The buttery bird awaits her fate as the oven finishes pre-heating. However, the directions for the cooking bag differ from my notes, and I am immediately confused. After a lengthy debate, my mother concedes that I should follow the bag's instructions. With the bird now in the oven, mother and I agree that we should get a couple of hours of sleep, since it's going to be a very long day.

At 9:00, I phone mom again. It's time to prepare the sweet potato soufflé, and to our surprise, the turkey is already done. After putting the giblets and the neck on to boil, I begin the task of assembling the dressing, with my mother's hands crumbling and mixing the bread vicariously through mine as her voice guides me over the phone. A quick taste test discloses that my faulty cornbread won't ruin the dressing after all. I chop onions and celery, with too much of the former, and arrange them neatly on a plate. Once again, my mother tells me to stop overanalyzing, and to call her when the soufflé and the dressing are done.

I use this downtime to set the table with coordinating linens and dinnerware. I'm secretly excited about this dinner, because it will be the first time every serving piece in my china service has been in use at one time. To celebrate my successful table setting, I pour a half-glass of cabernet, taking two sips before I remember that it's almost 2:00 and I've yet to eat anything. The wine goes straight to my head, and I feel a bit woozy. I put the wine aside, and slice the canned cranberry sauce to celebrate, instead.

As the dressing and sweet potatoes finish their stint in the oven, our guest Tristan volunteers to peel and boil several white potatoes for mashed potatoes. My husband A.J. begins to carve the turkey, a little nervous at his debut with the carving knife. He doesn't think the bird is done. "It's done," I say.

"My mom's turkey is darker. And this meat looks pink," he says as he hesitantly lifts one of the first slices.

"Your mom probably puts something on it, like paprika. And the meat is white," I reply, lifting up the kitchen blind to let in more light. Seeing that he's still hedging on his carving duties, I pull off a small piece of turkey and tear it in two, stuffing one bite in his mouth before he can mention his mother's turkey again. "Hey, that's really good," he responds. The second bite goes to our guest, who defends my claim that the turkey is indeed done.

"What's wrong with regular gravy?"

With the men occupied in the kitchen, I have a 30-minute window in which to shower and get ready for dinner. I return to the kitchen, fresh-faced and damp-haired, to mash the potatoes and put the marshmallow layer on the sweet potatoes. I put the courses in their serving dishes and place them on the table. I put the rolls in the oven. The moment of truth has finally arrived – it's gravy time. I call mother.

She patiently instructs me in the art of making giblet gravy. I boil two eggs. A.J. wanders into the kitchen to see what I'm working on, as I'm slicing the turkey giblets and stripping the neck. After I give him a tour of my neatly arranged giblet cubes (stop overanalyzing), he wrinkles his nose and asks, "What's wrong with regular gravy?"

I stare at him incredulously. On the phone, my mother tells me to tell him that giblet gravy is just better, that we've always made giblet gravy for Thanksgiving dinner, and that if he hadn't walked in while I was fixing the gravy, he'd love it and be none the wiser. He retreats to the living room, and I begin to prepare the flour slurry for the gravy. I am truly in unfamiliar territory now, and rely on my mother's wisdom to get me through this test.

Before I know it, the gravy is done, and it looks just like mom's gravy. A quick taste confirms the similarity. Standing still and alone in the kitchen for what seems like the first time that day, I feel as if that the temperature of the kitchen has nearly reached the internal temperature of the oven. I wonder, does it always get this hot? I pour the gravy into my never-before-used gravy boat, and whisk it and the rolls away to the table as my mother bids goodbye and her wishes for my success on the phone. Before I hang up, I ask, "Mom? Are you always this tired after cooking Thanksgiving dinner?"

She laughed and said, "Yes, as a matter of fact. And so is your grandmother."

I call the men to the table, with the lighthearted suggestion, "Just remember, any item that you complain about won't be on the table next year." A.J. considers my warning and then grins as he pulls out my chair for me. The men have two full plates of food each, much to my delight. A.J. even tries the giblet gravy. Their simple pleasure at a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal while away from their families makes all of my effort worth it.

There isn't much talking between the men as they eat, and I am afforded a few moments to reflect on the day, and to revel in my newfound respect for my mother and grandmother. I did it, but I couldn't have done it without my mother and Ma Bell. Our torch has been passed, and I have the confidence now to prepare Thanksgiving dinner on my own. At least as long as I have my spiral-bound pad of notes, and my mother has a telephone.

I find that I am too tired to lift my arms to the table, much less eat. But I think I've never seen a prettier Thanksgiving dinner.

My Favorite Comic

This is my favorite comic strip of all time. I thought I would share it with you. (I know I'm probably breaking a million copyright laws by doing this, but I hope I'll be forgiven.)

My Dream Job

As a follow up to Today's Theme Song, I thought I might share with you my career aspirations.

My Logical Job: Executive Assistant or Senior Administrator

This is the type of job is that I've held for the past fifteen or more years. Since I'm highly skilled, highly organized, and I am able to function in any environment from old-school, starched-shirt to business casual every single day of the week, I have never had a problem obtaining this kind of position. I thrive on making my boss(es) look great, and I enjoy being part of any corporate machine that generates a great product or service.

My Target Job: Writer

This is the job that I am aspiring to. I love language, and have a profound respect for the written word. I want to do this for a living, if for no other reason than to get these damned ideas for stories out of my head to make room for other things. This is the job I would hold if I could do it for myself and no one else, and if money was no object. I'll admit, however, that if someone enjoys reading what I've written, I'd consider it a bonus.

Now, I will take you on a sharp detour. Be prepared, and promise not to laugh.

My Dream Job: Radio Tower Light Bulb Changer

You probably weren't expecting that. Honestly, I have fantasized about this job for over a decade. Have you ever met someone who does this for a living? I haven't. But I know they are out there; someone is doing it. This job would be the epitome of being "highly specialized."

I wonder what the job description for this position would be?

"Individual needed to change light bulbs on radio towers. Candidate must not have a fear of heights. High physical stamina essential. Familiarity with electricity and electrical wiring is required. Candidate must be able to function for long periods of time in solitude, with minimal or no supervision. Must be willing to travel. Patience and high stress tolerance a plus.

Benefits include health insurance, life insurance, 401K, clothing and travel allowances, and paid vacations."

Wow, I am so there.