It’s Thanksgiving and We Haven’t Cooked a Turkey for Our Friends and Family in Years
A tale of culinary exploration and the evolution of family
It wasn’t exactly a writing prompt, but my great friend and only remaining far, Roz, inspired me to write about Thanksgiving after I read her story.
When our kids were little, Thanksgiving was a special time for our family.
While my wife is the real chef, I helped out doing prep work and throwing out ideas. Way back in the 90s, we experimented with whole grain granola for the stuffing. Even though I’m not really an arts and crafts guy, I made a watermelon fruit tray that looked like a TV set.
And, unlike the indestructible BeBop Piñata we made for my son’s seventh birthday, people had no trouble digging in.
I’d like to think that the fun we had with the kids preparing a special family meal influenced their budding talents in the kitchen.
I’d also like to think that my one great culinary achievement — the birthday barbeque of June, 2006 — made our sons feel that cooking could be a man’s thing, too. I certainly basked in the glow of that brief moment. How cool is it when your sons’ college-age friends ask “is your dad going to barbeque?”
I squeezed every drop of street cred out of that one, but now my younger son is the master griller and my only job is to check the temperature of the wood smoker every hour and add wood, if necessary. I don’t complain and you wouldn’t, either, if you tasted his amazing tri tip and ribs.
Thanksgiving evolved as did our family.
As the kids grew, my wife went back to school to become an R.N. In 2008, she took a job in labor and delivery, which limited her Christmas vacation time. In order to take off both Christmas and New Years every two years — so we could visit her family in France — she agreed to work all the other holidays throughout the year.
My mom died a year later and my dad came to live with us. With son #1 living with his soon-to-be wife, they were going for Thanksgiving with her parents. Somehow, all our past regulars — both family and friends — dropped out around the same time.
Suddenly, the 25–30 people who used to crowd around our Thanksgiving table shrunk to three — dad, my younger son, and me.
We had a few bleak years, eating Chinese food, or going to the Country Deli for their pastrami sandwiches. The low point gastronomically was the night we went to a Denny’s, but it was still special for the three of us to hang out.
It all makes you remember the one lesson about Thanksgiving that really matters: you can’t ever make enough roast potatoes.
Things changed again with the invention of Friendsgiving.
My older son came up with the idea because all of his old college friends, both those in town and those back to visit, spent Thanksgiving with their families. And because everyone was already stuffed with turkey, the menu was as wide open as the frontier plains — otherwise known as the meat department at Costco.
We celebrated on the Saturday following Thanksgiving, and combined it with the traditional rivalry game between our beloved UCLA Bruins (my son, daughter-in-law, and I all graduated from there) versus the despised USC Trojans. There’s an old saying about them: “A Trojan is only good for one night, but a Bruin is good forever.”
When we combined our sons’ friends and our group of friends, we had 25 guests again and created a pot luck for the ages.
One guy did barbeque competitions, so sometimes he came over to cook on our big outdoor grill. Another friend owned an Italian restaurant, so he brought a wonderful antipasto salad and a pasta dish. Another Italian friend had retired from the restaurant business, but he would rise to the occasion, too. Our Philipino buddy always brought a couple of kinds of flan and maybe some home-made egg rolls. And a dear, now departed friend made a fantastic Italian appetizer mashup we called “Capruchetta” — basil leaves on top of a slice of mozzarella, on top of a large tomato slice on top of a toasted slice of sourdough bread.
But my wife was the star of this culinary three-ring circus. She made a chicken Marsala to die for, with roast potatoes and mixed veggies. If the barbeque guy brought something besides meat, she would make a tri tip or a prime rib. But the star of the show was here salmon and mixed shellfish dish in a pink cream and Dill sauce with fettuccine on the side.
Nobody ever got to bring home leftovers from the salmon dish, despite the size of that electric skillet.
This year, who knows? My younger son might make pasta from scratch using an authentic old-world sauce recipe that requires a trip to a special Italian deli. For dessert, he can make a tiramisu or a specialty cheese cake that puts restaurants to shame. And our older son will bring his fresh sourdough boules and other delicious baked goodies.
We have so much to be grateful for.
Everybody stayed healthy throughout the pandemic. My wife’s job made her an essential worker, so we didn’t get killed when my business went into hibernation. Our sons are a constant source of joy, both inside and outside of the kitchen.
Oh, and the Bruins just kicked some Trojan butt, 38–20.
Happy Thanksgiving!
