Funny how as you get older, holidays get less annoying and more precious. Even if the Pilgrims and Indians didn’t sit down and smoke a peace pipe, we would have needed to invent Thanksgiving.
It is difficult for cynics like me on Thanksgiving. Giving thanks makes us feel a little uncomfortable. We don’t normally wear our hearts on our sleeve, but there is no other way to write a column about Thanksgiving. What you may perceive as sentimentality is merely my sigh of relief all of us have survived another year intact. For me, Thanksgiving is a celebration of everyone who is part of my glorious life. Eating a great meal is a helluva nice way to celebrate. When you are Italian, there is no better way to go. While I’m not much for the peace pipe, a slab of pie, a good cup of coffee and a game of Michigan rummy with the grandkids is a pretty good way to do it for this pilgrim.
The part I don’t like is our troops have to share it with us via satellite, smiling their homesick smiles while eating the military’s version of a traditional turkey dinner. Each year is eerily the same. It is the one unchanging thing in our lives, the separation of our troops from those they love. It is a terrible sacrifice and one many willingly make, but we here at home have to do a better job of ensuring we require such a sacrifice only when absolutely necessary.
We men are guilty of using Thanksgiving as another excuse for watching football. I am not suggesting giving that up, only that we take the time to understand the effort it took to put the food on the table, only that we take the time to appreciate the moment for what it is, rather than as a backdrop for TV.
Those of us who are older tend to fall into the habit of getting the blues as these holidays roll in. After all, we think, they can never be as good as those years gone by since we lost so many loved ones. I am as guilty as the next guy for allowing the blues to rob me of holiday cheer. Those who have the same problem, resolve with me now to honor your departed loved ones by concentrating on the ones who are still with you. Each holiday brings its own unique memories if you allow it.
Sip your wine slowly and savor it. Dip your spoon into the homemade soup, taste the love that went into it. If you are lucky enough to be eating escarole soup, realize those tiny meatballs were invented on Mount Olympus by the gods.
The antipasto is next. It is full of the best Greek and Sicilian olives, slices of thinly cut prosciutto and chunks of sharp cheese. Nobody wants to hear how this is going to raise your blood pressure. Let your blood pressure take the night off.
When you dive into the homemade manicotti — the ones you love that are so thin they melt in your mouth — remember the time it took to roll the dough. The gravy is perfect, garlicky and full of chunks of rich tomato because she knows the way you like it. Try not to eat too many. Save room for the turkey. Don’t complain turkey is for medicons. It’s the tradition, stupid.
Your competence does not extend to many things, so at least carve the bird. Don’t make the usual remarks about how you don’t understand why turkey is so popular, just carve it.
She has put bits of Italian sausage, raisins and apples in the stuffing because your mother made it that way. Remember to remember that. Take another sip or two of wine. It makes you mellow and more bearable, if you must know the truth.
There are two kinds of potatoes. You don’t have to wonder why, just choose between the roasted white and sweet potato casserole. The green beans are firm and juicy.
Take a breather and enjoy some conversation, let some opinions go unchallenged for a change. The pies and homemade cookies will be out soon enough. If you want the coffee sooner rather than later, get up and do it yourself so she can enjoy a respite.
Trust me. You do all these things and your Thanksgiving will live up to the Thanksgivings of your memory. If not, pretend.
