These memories.... these are the sweetest memories that I have of my mom and our family.
Actually, that's not entirely accurate, the first Thanksgiving memories happened in a small suburb in NY called Yorktown Heights- in the best split family sprawling ranch that I have ever known. But that's neither here nor there.
Our family is like no other. We have big personalities, almost all of us (yes almost) have some sort of cooking talent, we love hard, and we love deep.
We would arrive in NY about two days before Thanksgiving, or sometimes right when school break began- the drive from Boston to NY would happen in the middle of the night since the trip through CT was/is a nightmare in full holiday rush, fueled by coffee and the Beach Boys. We would arrive extremely late, and my grandmother would rush out to greet us at the car...we would carry in close to a dozen or more Pies, suitcases and whatever other Thanksgiving necessities were required.
I can still remember the smell of that house on the holidays, sweet like cookies, strong coffee, and the constant steam from the dishwasher that ran non stop from the time we arrived, until the time we left fogging up the kitchen window, should it even get closed.
The house would be dimly lit, offerings of any kind of cookie you would imagine would happen, though normally I would crash straight away while my mom and grandmother did the meal prep planning for the duration of the holiday- often times this included at least one Italian meal, obviously.
Each morning the oversized dinging room table would be filled with groggy family members, juices and coffee in hand, and more baked goods than anyone could actually imagine. I often miss my mom's banana bread where she eliminated the walnuts, since I had a cousin who was allergic and I just didn't care for them- slathered with cream cheese and a tall apple or grape juice(yes pre coffee). These were the groggy mornings that hugged my cranky teenage self awake. Through out the duration of the morning 12-20 of us would slowly rise, some very early risers to walk with Grandpa on his morning walks, and some of us couldn't be woken if a bomb went off right next to our heads until noonish. (Right Kim?)
We would gather around the table in shifts all day, chatting, catching up, telling hilarious stories and laughing until the tears came, setting out dishes and clearing dishes. To this day I'm pretty sure that my grandmother has a place setting of 50, of her Snow Village plates of every size and shape.
I'm not sure that I could pin point the actual turkey meal, since the visit was always one constant meal of all varieties with naps and showers in between. I do know that my mother only left the kitchen to watch football with her dad and brothers. A tradition I never thought I would hold close to my heart... but here I am, decades later screaming at the TV in her true minion form. I guess its about time to show pride to be her next generation of independent strong women (I am sure that I will be blessed with all girls as karma for my childhood- I am not the end here).
I can vividly remember sitting in the family room, void of television, sometimes with music, sometimes with a very loud football game on the other side of the wall... as my grandfather poked and built his fire masterpiece. He took such pride in having his family under his roof, feeding us, and keeping us safe and warm. I can only imagine how his heart felt as he looked around to the different generations filling his home to the brim, I'm emotional just thinking about it.
There are times when I close my eyes and visit this place- smelling the pies and cookies and fire... hearing my mom cackle with laughter because her middle brother's dry sarcasm always tickled her to her core, though sometimes at the expense of their mother- it was always in jest with love.
I can remember snuggling with my cousins on the couch, we got together so rarely as we were spread between multiple states, each bringing our own pop culture knowledge, and wisdom of the time together in a collective unique dialogue with Mindy's infectious giggle- still my favorite.
This escape from reality likely saved me time and again. Curling up into my grandfather's arm nook as he read to me, or resting my head on my mom's shoulder as she stirred the gravy... these peaceful times, in a life that wasn't as much peaceful, got me through. They reconnected us, grounded us back to the family that made each of us possible.
So its now, no secret where my love for Thanksgiving over Christmas comes from. These moments of perfect family gatherings will forever be seared into my heart and memory. So, until I have a family of my own, I will cook for whoever will let me feed them, I will be the warmth and the joy and the dry sarcasm to those who are in need of a giggle, I will open my heart and my kitchen in honor of a woman who would spend weeks on her feet making sure everyone had their favorite dessert.
I may cry, get emotional, or take things more to heart than normal- but its only because these sweet memories mean so much.
I am thankful for these Memories.
I'm thankful to have been raised by two sets of parents willing to teach me all they knew.
I'm thankful for all of my crazy awesome, grown up, cousins and their families.
I'm thankful for my own little family.
I am thankful for local friends who have shared, and will share this holiday with us.
Happy Thanksgiving to my family, to my mom as she watches over me, and to you and your loved ones. Let it be about love filled memories of joy.
