Thanksgiving gone South

I fear that, as you read this, you will ask questions like how could I not have known? How did I allow this to happen? Why did I.... Well stop right there. Why is a sucker's question. Why gets us nowhere. When things go as far south as they did on that 2012 Thanksgiving, the "Allower," myself, the one who you may say dropped the ball, can usually explain how, but seldom why. So I will tell you how.

Before going further I will introduce the cast of characters. We were small, just right for a good stage play, let us say a farce. By the way, is farce, as in a comical play, related to the French word for stuffing? I wonder.

First my mother (M), a sterling character in her mid 70s, widowed, traditional and conventional to the point of being old fashioned, a committed hostess, perfect in her holiday planning and execution. M had taught in one-room school houses until she married my father. Prompt? Yes. She was always on time or early. Generous? Certainly: she always served much more food than enough, so that no one would think of not indulging. By temperament and culture, though not by faith or practice she was a Protestant, Irish, and praised by all for presenting a consummate table. She was meticulous--how many people dust their house plants? Martha Stewart had nothing on my mother. Parkinsons disease prevented her from being as energetic as she once was, but as her very experienced and meticulously trained assistant, diligent sous-chef, and precise table setter, she had:

Me. Just call me "You." I'll call myself "I." I was her only child, and I had assisted at all the holidays for decades. I knew how she wanted everything, from the consistency of the cranberries to the creaminess of the mashed potatoes and the thickness of the gravy. As for the turkey, I made the stuffing just as she liked it (sage, savory, salt, pepper, dried bread, and the obligatory potatoes), prepared the turkey properly, followed the routine of temperature, time, and basting, and in short made sure the bird was a success. I also knew, and know to this day, where to place all of the glasses, china, and cutlery. I would be misleading you out of false modesty if I did not say plainly that I was the perfect assistant for M, who was the perfect hostess. And before you ask, every year I host Thanksgiving just as my mother did, with all of her china and silver, and with the same recipes. I have found it a good way to maintain my connections to those who are 'missing in action'.

My wife, L, died in 2016. In the fall of 2012 she was in her prime: brilliant, intellectually and artistically very accomplished, culturally and personally very different from my mother but sensitive to her and helpful in very many ways. When it came to the holidays, L sensibly and helpfully left the kitchen and prep to M and me. My mother-in-law, long lost to cancer, had explained to us both that the holidays were M's big number, that all she wanted was to have the family together (my mother-in-law included while she was alive), and that we owed it to her (and ourselves) to make the very small effort of being present. We agreed, wouldn't you?

My wife's aunt R, also widowed, was the last member of the cast. A longtime permanent resident, but still a proud Italian citizen, Catholic perhaps by culture though certainly not by practice, she complained vociferously of the Anglo-protestant culture of her adopted country, and spoke of the superiority of Italy and Italians, but set all of that aside for my mother, whom she admired and praised.

A word or 2 concerning R... She was always late and seldom reliable. Often she would ask L and me to stop by at a certain time and she would be out, arriving as much as an hour later while we waited. L was embarrassed, and I said don't be. Once, in Venice, her Italian home, she got off the vaporetto without us and spent the rest of the day by herself, leaving us locked out of her apartment in the heat. She was bulemic and criticized everyone else as an overeater. She smoked and lectured us on healthy eating. She could sustain a conversation reasonably for a few minutes then switched to attack mode against L, and when I rose to defend her, L always sent me out of the house, saying "Would you please go and buy my aunt a package of cigarettes? You know the kind she smokes." And I did. R had been traumatized as a child in the war. R had a borderline personality disorder. Would I have one too if I had been abandoned by my parents in the nightmare of northern Italy in the 1940s? It's a question. I keep in touch with R to this day. And R set her personality disorder completely aside for Thanksgiving.

That's the cast. And I want to underline that, since 1987, with my father, the four of us had celebrated Thanksgiving together happily at my mother's house every year, and after my father died in 2000, the four of us continued to do so every year. And I am sure this account will have the ring of truth because it was so. In fact I have not even employed what Mark Twain and his character Huck Finn called 'stretchers'.

Oh, my nose. Having said that, I need to change one detail to align with the truth. There was the Thanksgiving of 1990 when R did not show up, even though she had promised she would. Every fall she returned to Venice, and every fall she showed up for Thanksgiving, except once.

L worried that year when she was later than planned, and when she did not answer her home phone in Venice, or the prepaid cell phone. She shared her worry with me, and I worried because she worried. Thanksgiving came and went, no sign of R. I called immigration. Had R's Italian passport returned? Three days later the answer was no. We checked her house. Again no evidence of her, cobwebs on her car. L's anxiety went through the roof, and she told me to do something.

Do you know of the Italian Carabinieri? They are the elite police force, and they are impressive. I searched on the internet, quite new then, and found a phone number for their station in Venice. An alert captain answered the phone, and I explained. She agreed that I was right to be concerned. I had an address and two phone numbers. She said she would send the 'Vigili' (the beat cops) to check and she told me to call back. I asked her how long I should wait before calling back--seventy-two hours? "Three days?" she exclaimed. "We are the Carabinieri! Call back in thirty minutes."

As good as her word, they found her in thirty minutes. She had disconnected her land line and didn't want to add more money to the cell phone. She had stayed longer because the weather was good. What was the matter with me? she fulminated. Why was I so worried? And why did I send the police to her door to scare her? I should never have involved the police. I scared her half to death. And so on. When she returned she told the story of my blundering to all of her friends, and finally admitted to me that each one had said she was fortunate to have people keeping track of her.

So with that exception, the four of us gathered at M's for Thanksgiving ever year. There. Not even a stretcher now. My nose has resumed its normal length.

The difference in 2012, seemingly small, but decisive, was that R insisted on buying the turkey. Before you say anything, know that I objected as politely as possible. Our Thanksgiving was always, in principle, at 1 o'clock. R's arrival usually made it a bit later, but none of us remarked on that. Buying the turkey and bringing it for me to stuff and cook was, to me, a very different matter. I said, "I don't know how big a turkey you are going to bring, but I will need about three hours to cook it, so I have to have it by 10 o'clock." L nodded emphatically in agreement.

"All right, all right, you will have it at 10," R said breezily, a little too easily for my liking.

"She'll probably be late," I said privately. L agreed. "The question is how late," I added.

"Well if it's eleven, we'll just have to eat at two. Will that work?"

I wanted to put the best face on it. "Yes, and I can pre-heat the oven."

Okay you may start commenting and blaming now. Fair is fair. Yes it was the moment to say something. And I said no more. Have you ever relented at the moment of arguing with relatives several years older than you? Then perhaps you can understand....

My supervised preparations began the day before. I cubed the bread, peeled and boiled the potatoes, devilled the eggs, simmered the cranberry sauce, washed the asparagus, bought the rolls, took the silver out and polished it. M made two pies, one pumpkin and one apple. The aromas were intoxicating. L did the cleaning and vacuuming and she made an exquisite appetizer: chopped basil heated ever so slightly in olive oil with reconstituted sundried tomatoes and mozzarella pearls. Wow! I reached into the highest cupboard and brought down the pinwheel crystal horn of plenty.

Thanksgiving day had perfect weather: cool but not cold, bright and sunny. The three of us had our coffee and sat down to wait for R to arrive with the turkey. Our cat, sweet creature, sat blissfully in the sun.

Ten o'clock passed, then eleven. The nervousness was palpable. M could not stifle a "Where can she be?" L telephoned R, and of course there was no answer. I tried to keep my own worry bottled up. Each of us, was, of course, worried for the other. L was embarrassed. R was, after all, her aunt. I was worried for L's embarrassment. M was worried for all of us going to be late for dinner, and for the pressure I would be under when the turkey would walk through the front door. Tick tock....

We passed twelve. More remarks and phone calls. To no avail. I turned the oven off. At one o'clock M started talk alternately about cancelling Thanksgiving and hoping R was not in an accident--maybe we should call the police. I wished for the Carabinieri.

At two R whisked through the door, handing me a frozen turkey. I said not a word, deciding to stuff it and put it in the oven, against all rules of cuisine. M said "We'll start with potatoes, gravy, and asparagus." L rushed to help. R went outside to have a smoke.

When she came back inside, L's appetizer, the potatoes, and asparagus were served on the table. I was finishing with the turkey prep, trying to control what I had to say. R was in a triumphant mood because of her success. "I don't know why," she said, "everybody says turkey is so expensive. This one was just over a dollar a pound."

I could contain myself no longer. "This one has only one leg, and no wings," I said simply.

"A utility turkey?" L said. "You bought a utility turkey for Thanksgiving?"

"Why?" R asked. "What's the difference?"