Thankful Memories

     The pot of horrors would be bubbling on the stove all morning, neck and giblets, looking like a witches' cauldron leftover from Halloween.  Giblets.  It was a comical, almost friendly name, no doubt invented to deceive us into thinking they might not be as terrible a concept for food.  That bubbling pot meant gravy would be eaten at your own risk, but it would be made as Grandma always had, and her mother before her, and before that, in the days when no food was wasted however unappetizing.

     There was a table full of vegetables to chop for stuffing, mashed potatoes, and other side dishes, not to mention a tray to snack on that we didn't bother to call crudité.  Thanksgiving was bigger than everyday, more special, but it was humble, too.  We always helped in the kitchen.  Before the meal preparation was more fun than dish washing after.  I suppose it always is, but when the holiday means more than the usual eight diners and all the specialty dishes brought out of the china cabinet, dish washing becomes a monumental task.  The extra guests were part of what made the day so special, though.  While it wasn't unusual to have relatives gathering for other occasions, Thanksgiving just seemed so open and friendly to me.  I remember declaring it my favourite holiday at one time, and it wasn't because of the food.  My Thanksgiving plate was usually pretty spartan as I was fairly picky.  There was just good cheer and hospitality floating in the air mixed with all the smells of roasting turkey.

     It's a day I'll always associate with Grandma, too.  Even before we lived with her, that day always meant a day with Grandma.  It was the one certain and regular adventure of my early years: the drive to her house, filled with singing and the almost magical passage through the tunnel of trees that bowed over the entrance road.  I picture her standing at the kitchen table with her hands deep in the giant mixing bowl, blending chunks of vegetables, bread and sausage into stuffing.  It was the best way, tossing them together with your hands, to get the moisture distributed without turning the whole thing to mush.  Of course, the best way was with Grandma's hands, but we'll have to make due with substitutes these days.  The other indelible Thanksgiving memory I have of her was a toast she gave not long after my Grandpa passed away.  At the time, I was very young and didn't completely understand why she cried and couldn't finish her speech on such a happy day as Thanksgiving.  I think I do now.