The Stuff of Tradition

Turkey fat, sage, yeast, rye.

The man was preparing Thanksgiving dinner. Thoughts of perfection and indulgence entered his mind. An opportunity to create the perfect Thanksgiving dinner this year: a simple meal of turkey, potatoes, stuffing, gravy. Green beans optional. This year, dinner was a small ordeal, the man, his wife and the in-laws. Thanksgiving knows no attendance requirements; it must be done. An attendance of 4 requires an abundance for 12, not optional. Last year, the gravy was ruined, it had something to do with too much fat in the gravy. The man had looked up how to make gravy – fat to broth ratio? Never heard of such a thing. The man’s prior method was to dump all of the drippings into the pot and slowly add corn starch until it thickens, but this year he wanted perfect gravy. Carefully pouring the drippings into a clear measuring cup, he awaited the fat separation.

The man was a rigid man, knowing exactly what he wanted. He knew stuffing is the main event of the meal, no salty boxed junk, real white and rye bread, sage-dominant, and under no circumstances cooked outside of the turkey. He packed the neck and gut cavity full, fuller than recommended. Stuffing must be stuffed! Let the bacteria fear mongers be cast into the eternal pit, let the turkey inflate with blissful chunks of rye! The stuffing was perfect, the turkey was juicy, the gravy was smooth, and the new addition of the wife’s homemade cranberry sauce was a beautiful accent. Dinner was served at the dining room table with jovial conversation and Thanksgiving-themed paper plates. Leftovers enough to feed the entire block.

Six months later, the man and his wife are sitting in the car. The man ruminating, “I still think about that Thanksgiving meal. It was such a perfect meal. But why was it perfect? The taste was amazing, yes, but there was something more to it. Making a meal to my exact taste, it was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had. It feels like it represents something more than just food, a sense of satisfaction, a culmination of something greater than the sum of its parts.”

“It was amazing”, the wife said. “That’s the first time I’ve actually enjoyed the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. I thought turkey was always dry.”

The man continues to ruminate and responded, “Remember when we talked about how food that you make yourself usually isn’t as good as when someone else makes it for you. The same recipe for some reason taste better when it’s given from someone else. It’s rare when you make something so terrifically satisfying that it feels whole, needing nothing, nowhere near inferior. But this time it was something I made myself that was perfect.”

Turkey fat, sage, yeast, rye.

The grandmother got up at 4am to put the turkey in. A small kitchen, just enough room for a stove, fridge, sink and a small counter about 4 foot long. She’s got close to 40 coming, but who knows who will show up. Things won’t be done all on time, since one oven cannot hold a turkey, beef roast, ham, and duck. She pulls apart whatever bread she found on sale at the store while melting the butter and celery, adding a little extra sage, because that’s the way she likes it. God forbid, she puts onions in with the butter, she hates onions, only onion powder is acceptable.

The little boy wakes up a little tired after experiencing a night of wall-shaking snoring. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he’s at, the sounds of the tv on low and smell of a well-insulated, but poorly ventilated house had a rich smell from the old carpet and continual cooking done in the house. But the boy would be nowhere else for the holiday than Grandma’s house. The boy stretches on the couch and looks over to see his grandpa in his proper place; his old, brown recliner.

Grandmother spends the next several hours in the kitchen switching from potatoes to basting to gravy. With the time in between, she whips up a batch of pea soup with the ham bone. No need to worry about the apple, cherry, blueberry, and strawberry-rhubarb pies that were baked yesterday, they’ll speak for themselves. Meanwhile, the boy entertains himself looking through old National Geographics and occasionally checking to see if something interesting is on tv, like ‘Wild America’ on PBS or even better ‘Rambo: First Blood Part 2’. He’s excited, because he knows that soon the small modular will be filled with his cousins.

Mom, dad, sisters, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins drift in throughout the morning, packing in like sardines. The wood stove roaring needlessly as body heat keeps the house in the 80s. Kids and adults alike find places to sit, couch or floor or a foldout card table. The dining room table is no option, being filled to the edges with food, no place for even a single plate. The grandmother sees this as special, a time to have with her children and grandchildren, showing love the way that she understands how. She takes a brief time to eat, not much, just enough to satiate. When dessert time comes, she pulls a homemade birthday cake out of the bedroom, hidden from gleeful children. A cake is needed to celebrate the nearby birthdays after all. The cake is covered in colorful frosting frills, certainly not the pre-made frosting in a jar, the kind you make and dye yourself, dispensed through plastic bags. The décor on the cake is thoughtful. Each person’s name is written in cursive or those little flowers you make with a piping bag. The grandchildren and children alike gleam with excitement as the candles are lit and the birthday song is sung. Candles blown out, kids packed up, leftovers taken and the boy naps in the car on the way home. The boy anticipates the next holiday dinner at Grandma’s.

Turkey fat, sage, yeast, rye.

The man recollects. The man realizes he didn’t make the perfect meal by himself.