TT's Thanksgiving

Dear Samantha,

I got side-tracked earlier (told you that happens to me when I write!) because I meant to tell you a little about the Cavanaugh family Thanksgiving traditions. They are very important, dear Samantha, so just in case you have to plan things without my expert guidance some day, these are the things you should know about Thanksgiving.

We always have turkey. It has never mattered that I don’t really like turkey, and neither did my father, actually. It’s traditional to have turkey, so we do. I understand that, I’m as interested in tradition as the next guy. I only wish we could occasionally have something else too, even some thick slices of a good smoked ham would be fine. But turkey it is, with sage and cornbread dressing (made with real cornbread, baked from scratch and still hot from the over when it’s made into the stuffing). Baked oysters, with a butter bread crumb topping, my mother’s nod to her eastern seaboard ancestors. Sliced sweet potatoes, sprinkled with nutmeg and cinnamon. Mashed potatoes, creamy smooth and brought to the table with a little crater in the center where a pat of butter sits melting happily. Parkerhouse rolls, also made from scratch, all tufted and brown on the top. Fruit salad, a concoction only Richard’s mother could make, with canned fruit cocktail, imprisoned in layers of strawberry and lime Jello, then covered with a blanket of Cool Whip.

And dessert – of course, the (again traditional) pumpkin and apple pies, but also Richard’s grandmother’s Scottish shortbread, a truly mouth watering little cookie that tastes like pure squares of sweet butter. Hot coffee, lightened with just a whisper of Bailey’s Irish Cream.
So much for the food, which today was in the very capable culinary hands of your own mother. I hope you were taking notes in there, dear Samantha, so that someday you’ll be able to carry on the Thanksgiving meal time feast.

The cast of characters at the Cavanaugh family holiday table is also quite traditional. As I think about the Thanksgivings of the past, it was always my parents (my mother usually presided over the affair so she could show off her Royal Doulton and her Waterford), Richard’s parents, who managed to keep their bickering on ice for all of about 5 minutes, Richard’s sister Louise, who usually got a page to rush over to the hospital, where there was always a shortage of doctors on holidays, leaving her husband Roger to mind their three obnoxious boys. Of course, my mother’s sister Yvonne and her spinster daughter, Kathryn, whom I’m quite sure was a lesbian, although my mother would never entertain that suggestion. I mean, she had the Rosie O’Donnell haircut in 1982, for God’s sake! And, of course, Richard and I, and your mother.

Wow, I’d almost forgotten about all the people that used to gather for Thanksgiving. It was quite a big deal in those days, wasn’t it? Out would come the best china, and the crystal goblets, along with my great grandmother’s silver service, which it often fell to me to polish. My father would make a least three trips to Hansen’s Wine Store, picking out just the right Pinot Grigio and Beaujolais to complement the turkey. I think Mr. Hansen let him do lots of sampling there in the shop’s basement wine cellar. I can just see the two of them, my dad wearing his favorite fall corduroy trousers and his old Northwestern sweat shirt, Mr. Hansen, who always dressed in brown or dark green, as if he were trying to camofloge himself in the colors of the vineyards. They’d stand around, taking delicate but manly sips of the various vintages, rolling them around on their tongues.

“Quite nice,” my father would say pensively, not yet ready to commit himself. After all, there were so many more to be tasted and tried, before choosing the perfect bottle!

“Here, Ted, try this estate bottled Pinot Noir from Grand Traverse Resort. It’s amazing what richness they’ve been able to get in the Great Lakes vineyards.”

Oh, that was another of my dad’s stipulations – on Thanksgiving, we served only American wines, preferably those from our own Great Lakes regional vinters.

So, he would while away a couple of hours at Hansen’s each afternoon on the weekend prior to the big holiday, and come home in an extremely good mood. He often bought an entire case of whatever his picks for the year were, and he and my mother would open a bottle for dinner that very evening.

As I think back on it, I have never really been in charge of Thanksgiving. My mother reigned supreme over holidays, and, Anne was always her chief apprentice. By the time Frances died, Anne was ready to take over, which was perfectly fine with me. Like I said, I’m no genius in the kitchen. My function during the holiday was much better suited to my taste and talent. Like a true daughter of the Renaissance, I provided the musical entertainment for the evening. I spent all my pre-holiday preparation putting together a real Age of Enlightenment style musical evening, complete with printed programs and recital hall style seating in my music room. When Anne was a teenager, I could usually convince her to sing something – she had a lovely, pure voice, one any 18th century maiden would have been proud to show off. A couple of little Mozart songs, maybe a Schubert, which she would perform flawlessly, her shoulders back, hands resting gently at her sides, her beautiful dark eyes flashing. I always played the crowd pleasers – Moonlight Sonata, some Chopin favorites – the Preludes, the Fantasie Impromptu – and usually ended my program with something flashy like Rondo a la Turk, or the Minute Waltz (played in a minute, which I encouraged people to time!) So, we’d have our little concert, along with an aperitif, and then some of the men would collapse in the den to watch football while the women cleaned up (how much more traditional can you get?)

That was Thanksgiving, back in the day. I’ve realized though, dear Samantha, how things have changed over the years, almost without me really seeing it. Of course, both my parents are gone now, my dad almost 20 years ago, and Frances, back in 1996. Richard’s parents have moved to Florida. Louise and Roger divorced long ago, before Richard and I, and neither one of them lives in this area at all. As for those obnoxious boys of theirs – I have no idea where they are or what they’re doing! My Aunt Yvonne lives in an assisted living facility (with a “special neighborhood for the memory impaired,” if you can believe that!) Kathryn, well, she’s living with her “friend,” a woman named Calista, out in the woods of Vermont where they make hand crafted furniture!

Now today’s Thanksgiving was a little different than it’s been for the past few years. Your mother has always insisted we do the full Cavanaugh dinner, even though recently there have only been she and Jonathan at the table. Sometimes Jonathan’s parents will be at home – many times they go on cruises for the holidays, a convenient way to opt out of any family functions – and they will join us. Anne likes to have the meal here, for some reason. She’s actually quite sentimental, although she probably wouldn’t want you to think so. But today, we had quite a crew. Anne and Jonathan, of course. Jonathan’s parents, Lisa and Robert, who are really interesting and well traveled people, also joined us. And, of course, you were here today, dear Samantha! I am actually starting to see signs of your presence, just a slight mound around your mom’s slender middle, but a growing mound nonetheless! Richard was here, too. It was good to share a holiday meal with my whole family – all that’s left of them.