You could always see forever on Thanksgiving. The crisp, clean feel of autumn. The appetite for the huge feast whetted by football. Southern-Southeast Catholic in the morning. Walking back from the game hearing neighbors shout, "Who won?" The Packers-Lions on TV. Only one pro game on Thanksgiving. Noon — always the Packers against the Lions. The telecast opening with a light snow falling on the outdoor stadium in Detroit. The booming voice of Van Patrick, "It’s cold and it’s snowing here in Detroit and Happy Thanksgiving to all of you around the country." Tobin Rote. Bobby Layne. The day Alex Karras and the underdog Lions ate Bart Starr and Lombardi’s Packers alive for their Thanksgiving meal. The smell of the turkey roasting in the oven. How much longer would we have to wait to eat?
The Gimbel’s Parade. All of us entranced by the idea Santa Claus would climb a ladder and enter Toyland. You almost believed there were reindeer who could fly and elves helping that elderly gentleman make toys back at the North Pole. Christmas officially began when Santa disappeared inside Gimbel’s. And the smell of the turkey got even stronger inside your living room.
The warmth of the house contrasted with the nip in the air outside. The warmth from the oven, the warmth of your folks being there inside that house with you. On Thanksgiving you could believe all of you would be here like this forever. It was easy to be thankful without putting it into words.
Everybody has a special food that makes Thanksgiving. In our house, it was Mom’s sausage stuffing. She mixed, into the bread filling, chunks of fennel-spiced Italian sausage, raisins and bits of celery. My mom was not an especially good cook, but her sausage stuffing still lingers on my taste buds. It was always more popular than the turkey, which for some strange reason, always tasted better the next day.
Each ethnic group brings its distinctive touch to the Thanksgiving meal. With Mom, it was her sausage stuffing. In later years, it was my mother-in-law and then my wife’s lighter-than-air homemade manicotti. We stuffed ourselves with that while being warned there still was turkey and all the fixings coming. Frankly, most of us Italians put turkey on the table for traditional purposes, as kind of a show of solidarity with Americans across the country. But we prefer the pasta served prior to the bird. That course is preceded by homemade escarole soup with little meatballs. I’m not sure the Pilgrims or Squanto would have understood.
Thanksgiving with the family ended early when I became a teen. Teens can tolerate only so much togetherness, no matter how much they love their family. I got together with friends and we would head to Convention Hall to see the old Philadelphia Warriors. Nothing better than watching Pitchin’ Paul Arizin go against the hated Celtics on Thanksgiving night. And all for about $2.50. We would never feel as close to pro basketball again after Eddie Gottlieb moved the Warriors out West. You can have the Sixers — to us they will always be the Syracuse Nationals, from whence they came.
Later, Thanksgivings featured my mother-in-law organizing a Michigan Rummy game after dinner, and we have carried forth that tradition. Still have the same game, and I think the same bunch of pennies from when she was alive. The kids still moan about losing, even when it’s your pennies they’re gambling.
My mom didn’t make pies, so we always bought them from Melrose. Delicious pumpkin and coconut custard, and mince for Dad. My wife makes the pies these days, a dandy pumpkin of her own and something called Chess pie, from an old Southern recipe. She claims the name came from someone asking the question, "What is it you’re baking?"
The answer came back, "Just pie, just pie," and was transformed through the years to Chess pie.
The wine served with the meal has become a bigger deal these days. My folks were second generation; Unlike most Italians, they only put wine on the table at Thanksgiving and Christmas. One white. One red. My father chose the wine, I think by the shape of the bottle. As a kid you weren’t offered any. When you hit drinking age, Mom frowned if you had more than a glass. She hated alcohol and made no exceptions on the holidays. Today, we take almost as much care in choosing the wine as we do planning the meal.
Oh yeah, there’s three pro football games on TV these days (one on the NFL Network at 8 p.m. has just been added). Not a lot of room for conversing and sharing warm memories. Make some time.
