Thanksgiving Reminiscences
Thanksgiving Reminiscences
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The call went out. Send us your wild, your sweet, your huddled histories of Thanksgivings gone by yearning to be shared. Here are a few, from minor disasters to major memories.
Now it’s time to make some more.
When I was growing up in Winnetka, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, my family traveled every year to our farm in Tryon, North Carolina, for Thanksgiving.
In 1965, after the holiday weekend, we flew back to Chicago from Asheville. We were already seated when a group of gentlemen boarded the plane, walked by us and sat a few rows behind us. My father recognized one of the gentlemen — describing him as a great man who would change the history of our country — and encouraged me to go talk to him.
Never shy, even at the awkward age of 12, I approached the gentleman and introduced myself: “My name is Marilyn Barrett, and my father says you are a great man and I need to meet you.”
He looked up at me, smiled a brilliant smile, heartily shook my hand, and said something to the effect of, “Thank your father for me.” We talked a bit and when I asked him for his autograph, he pulled a pen from his suit pocket and signed the only paper I had with me: my ticket jacket for Delta Airlines Flight 750, from Asheville to Chicago-O’Hare, stamped November 28, 1965.
He wrote, “Best Wishes, Martin Luther King, Jr.”
— Marilyn Barrett
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It comes in the fall with the possibility of experiencing beautiful fall foliage, if conditions have been right.
To me, Thanksgiving is a color, or a few colors: golds, reds, browns, orange, tan. I love the beautiful gold presented by the gingko tree at the corner of East Massachusetts Avenue and South East Broad Street in Southern Pines, and if you look into the woods you’ll see the lovely tans presented by American beech trees. All these colors are a part of what Thanksgiving is to me.
Of course, there is the food — usually too much food — and home-cooked is the best. There has been only one Thanksgiving that didn’t work out so well for me, and it was my own fault. Every year, somehow, when I fix my plate to eat, I think I have to eat a good portion of EVERYTHING. Mistake! One year, at my late mother’s home, I ate too much. Oh, the pain! I spent much of that day trying to recover. I can laugh about it now, and Thanksgiving remains my favorite holiday. Food, family, friends and if we’re lucky, beautiful fall weather.
— Linda Pearson
I’m not a baker, but in 2018, I found what looked like a foolproof recipe for a spiced pound cake with buttermilk glaze. It was the first Thanksgiving my parents hosted in North Carolina after years of chilly, sometimes snow-covered Thanksgivings in Pennsylvania. I had just gotten married that May and, feeling like I was officially entering adulthood, I was determined to contribute.
I got a store-bought spiced pound cake and placed it on a decorative plate, which meant I only needed to make the four-ingredient glaze.
My first attempt turned into something resembling cement. I blamed the butter and my lack of patience for maybe not whisking enough. I threw it out and headed to my parents’ house for attempt No. 2.
I double- and triple-checked the ingredients because I didn’t want to mess up my first Thanksgiving contribution as an “adult.” I carefully measured 2 cups of powdered sugar, 3 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract and 2 tablespoons of buttermilk.
Same result, glue!
I had a bright idea to put it over high heat, add some water and declared it good enough. At least I was able to drizzle it over the pound cake, only to discover after a bite or two that the glaze — now room temperature — was completely inedible.
That Thanksgiving, I learned an important lesson. Buttermilk and buttermilk pancake mix are not the same thing. For Thanksgivings to come, I’ll stick to my Pinterest board veggie platters.
— Erika Leap
My now-husband and I had just started dating. My momma took a little while to love him as I did. He would come for homemade suppers quite often. The night that the ice was broken was a hot dog and hamburger supper night. We all came together, joined hands, prayed over our prepared food and family.
Now, my momma, being Southern, could make cole slaw that would make you stop in your tracks. You can put it on a hot dog, a burger, eat it as a side. After supper, he told Momma, “That’s the best cole slaw I’ve ever had!” That was all it took, one compliment, and she loved him forever. I could walk in her house first, and she’d want to hug him first.
I was never mad, I enjoyed seeing their relationship grow. After that, no matter the dish, there was cole slaw — spaghetti and meatballs, we had cole slaw; chicken and dumplings, cole slaw; we could make a sandwich, there was cole slaw! Everyone knew that was my husband’s cole slaw, made just for him.
After years of this routine, on a Thanksgiving, we gathered at the table, joined hands, and my brother began to bless our well-prepared meal. We all sat quietly with heads bowed. Suddenly Momma raised her head and said, “Wait, Jesus, hold that thought.” She shot up from her chair and said, “I forgot the COLE SLAW!”
We all looked at one another and a slow laugh began. Momma had just told Jesus to hold that thought, in the middle of prayer, to make cole slaw.
My momma has since gone home to our Lord. I’ve done my best to replicate her cole slaw, but it will never be good enough to tell Jesus to “hold that thought.”
— Sonya Valk
Grandma was an identical twin, but only “Grandma Aunt Jacky” is still living. Throughout nine decades together, the twins’ shared DNA kept them close, so Dad was close with his cousins, and Thanksgivings have always involved extended family referred to as aunt and uncle, who are actually first cousins once removed.
My parents sometimes hosted Thanksgiving when I was young. Other times, we’d travel through the crisp Pennsylvania fall weather. I’d shower and pull on something fancy just to change into sweatpants for two-hand-touch after an hourlong car ride. The logistics never made any sense.
It was often a full game with knit hats marking the corners of a lopsided field. At worst, it was a couple of the youngest and three adults tossing a pigskin. Dad was always one of them, and still is. He has a sense of duty to tradition. It’s why we always made the drive, and why I still do, up from the Carolinas.
With the last points scored, I’d go inside, change back into my holiday best, more rumpled than before, and sit down to a feast a day’s drive north with aunts, uncles and first cousins once removed. Logistics be damned.
— Jenna Biter
Getting off a long flight from Mumbai to Sydney, Darling Husband and I were greeted by our old friends Zena and Paul, who whisked us off to their home outside the city. It was November 2005. The next night they surprised us with a Thanksgiving dinner, which they had researched as they do not celebrate this very American holiday in Oz. Turkey, a bold attempt at dressing, and green beans, along with a lovely Australian wine to round it out.
No dinner was ever more thoughtfully put together for two displaced Yanks. The sheer joy of being in their lovely home was cause enough for giving thanks, but Zena and Paul produced a feast for two weary travelers to bring both cultures together. It was a time to be truly grateful for life, good food so lovingly prepared, and friends on the other side of the world we so seldom saw.
Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t think of them and how they rekindled the meaning of coming together in gratitude for friendship and living a blessed life. And since DH’s passing, these memories warm my soul.
— Joyce Reehling
My Thanksgiving story is pretty mundane, compared to most people’s. Except for my sister, who lives up North, all the family is gone now. Even cousins are gone, except for a small handful who are scattered throughout the country; who knows where. Thanksgivings for me over the last 10 years have consisted of photographing the Moore County Hounds’ annual Blessing of the Hounds — Opening Meet. Afterward, I race home to get the pictures ready for The Pilot, and then prepare a meal for a horse friend who comes over and who is even less of a cook than I am. But I wing it, and we are both fine with the food; after all, it’s the coming together to share the meal on that day that matters.
But if I reminisce, which I tend to do even more now as time passes, Thanksgiving in my family was shared with the aunts and uncles who would travel down from Jersey to be with us, as we would travel up there to visit for Christmas every year. In the very early days in the 1960s, the cousins came too, and it was a great time to see and be with family again. My mother always cooked all the traditional foods and desserts, and it would be way more than we could eat, with loads of leftovers. But now I savor as many of those memories as I can, holding them in my mind and in my heart.
— Diane McKay
After my mother died, my father wanted to take on the Thanksgiving meal. His children (myself and husband, sister, and brother and wife) returned home each year to share the special occasion. Dad was a good cook and the meals were simple — only two side dishes even for holiday feasts. One year he decided to put the frozen turkey out on the front porch overnight to thaw for cooking the next day. When he woke up early in the morning to check on it, he discovered that a wild animal had feasted on it during the night. It might have been the neighbor’s cat!
After we all had a good laugh, Dad found a turkey loaf in the freezer and continued cooking the mashed potatoes and gravy and a green bean casserole. Sometimes good memories can come from bad times.
— Diana Staley
Fry Thanksgivings were always filled with family, friends, food (so much food) and fun. The day probably started with the men off to “hunt”; one never saw any game come back but lots of happy smiles. Women in the kitchen!
Us kids had a ball on the farm and were into every building and barn all over the place. I don’t remember a big turkey, but more of a big ham, lots of chicken, roast beef and every veggie one could think of, from potatoes to squash, along with all the relishes, pickles and molded salads from the latest recipe in the paper.
Two long freezers in the hallway were topped with pound cake (the all-time favorite), chocolate cake, fresh coconut cake, caramel cake and a neglected fruit cake.
Oh, and what pies! Every fruit that one can imagine, to pecan, chocolate cream, lemon meringue, and pumpkin and sweet potato!
All topped off with Grannie’s sugar cookies!
The Amazing Grace Farm is still known for its love of family, friends, fun and food.
— Glenda Kirby
Thanksgiving Recipe — Main Course
(Taken from the cookbook Joy of Heavenly Cooking)
Select 18 lbs. (or more) of Blessings
Stuff with Gratitude
Season with Kindred Broth
Roast with the Warmth of Humor
Baste with the Oil of Kind Words
Serve on a Platter of Goodwill
Carve some Savory Memories
Pass the Gravy of Compliments
Ladle lavishly with Love
Taste the Flavor of Fellowship
Enjoy a Hearty Feast of Grace
All from the hand of God
— Sandra Fischer
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My family tends to be creatures of habit without really meaning to be, just comfortably leaning into what’s already there and not questioning what has been. To me, this gentle compliance is most prominent on Thanksgiving. Once on a phone call, my brother simply stated, “There’re just little traditions, that’s all,” but I swear it’s more than that because our beats and actions feel so intentionally woven into the day.
Sometimes that table is quiet, everyone taking the day to just be after a year of moving, and working, and adjusting to the needs of others. Other years it’s loud with stories of the aunts that feel like the worn pages of a favorite book, or making up songs with our forks and a random toy whistle.
But no matter what, the overall day remains the same. Nonna arriving late, annoyed and mumbling, “The pie’s not good, that damn oven.” A game on the TV no one watches but stays on anyway. Promising we won’t fill up on cheese before dinner like last year. My sister and I whispering inside jokes across the table. A cat nudging your ankle for scraps. Vibrant paper crowns. Ma’s smile. Warmth, consistent warmth.
— Victoria Landers