As a child, my fondest memories of Thanksgiving were waking up to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, massive cartoon character balloons lightly floating down the boulevard towed by nearly a hundred people and crowds watching in amazement.
“Mom, come look!” I would squeal but mom could not leave the stove, to see the excitement. Large marching bands would be next, drumming and blowing a beat, girls in sequined uniforms would be twirling flags and batons. I would run to my bedroom, dig out my baton from the pile of last Christmas’s toys and with one hand on my hip and the baton in the other, feet marching back to the couch to join in with the band.
All the while, mom was still dutifully at the stove. The house smelled of sage, onions, and a bird that was roasting in the oven. The house was humid, and mom would suggest opening the front door, and the storm door always fogged up from the heat. I’m sure my father and I had probably asked her how much longer a dozen times already, smelling those savory fixings were torture.
My mom always pulled it off though. It was being placed on the table as the rest of the family arrived. She gave me the duty of fixing the kids table, which was really just clearing off the coffee table for my niece Becky and me, giving room for the adults to pile in at the dining table.
My sister did not make Becky eat a lot of vegetables like a lot of parents were obsessed with back then. As matter of fact, Becky ate a whole white plate, which disturbed my mother. What I mean by that is, everything on her plate was white; white meat turkey, mashed potatoes, and roll. My mom always encouraged vegetables, fiber, just something with some color. I would get my plate fixed and sit Indian style across from Becky at our table. She would look at my plate which mostly consisted of fried corn that mom had put in the freezer back in the summer, and I would look at her plate of white. “Mom! Becky is eating all white again!” I would yell out, my mom would then let in on my sister about how Becky was going to be sickly if she didn’t eat some color. My sister Jean, probably wishing she had a cigarette, shot me a dirty look, Becky was looking at her plate confused. I just started shoveling corn in my mouth, proud for tattling. I’m sure those two had it coming for something.
Hope you enjoy a Happy Thanksgiving filled with family, friends, and good eating! Send me a recipe email@example.com