food. according to me.     Sauce and Sensibility

Thanksgiving

This supposedly being a blog about food, and yesterday having been maybe the biggest food holiday we have in the U.S., I feel it is my pleasant duty to tappity-tap out my thoughts and experience thereof.

I do believe I said once that Thanksgiving is all about family and food for me – the whole pilgrims-and-indians jig is up, right? I mean, the third thursday in November doesn’t have much to do anymore with pioneers, hardship, or cultural synergy, does it? In my mind, anyway, it’s about gathering, neuroses, making a mess of the kitchen, sparkling apple juice, being with family, gluttony, praise. It’s not Thanksgiving unless someone’s flight is delayed, unless Mom or I cry over the pie crust, unless there’s at least a chance the turkey will hit the floor. We all have those special family traditions to hang on to, to keep us aglow with the holiday spirit through the darkness and the damp of fall and winter.

Two years ago I had my first Thanksgiving away from my own nuclear unit – different faces, traditions. Different food. It never occurred to me until then that other people would have ham, say, instead of crab; or that a table could be set sans blanched almonds. The tofurkey was a big surprise, too. But that meal was delicious, and the family was warm. Just like my immediate clan, there were certain dishes they had to have, traditions they wanted to follow, neuroses they had to appease. I called my parents when the meal was over to make sure they had saved a slice of Grandma Alice’s pumpkin chiffon pie for me. It wasn’t until the next day when I ate it that the holiday felt complete.

Last year the holiday transformed again. Up here in ol’ PDX we have a bit of a Central Cali enclave. Half a dozen of us knew each other from working at or patronizing a certain Monterey coffee shop – family in a different sense, though nonetheless important or dear. We set on having a meal of our own – a potluck Thanksgiving for friends new and old, anyone who didn’t want to trek back home or had no home to trek back to. A year ago, we were potluck rockstars. Invitations issued at one in the afternoon saying only, “Come over tonight” often produced impromptu bar-be-cues of the finest caliber. Being a bunch of foodies, it was hard to have a flop.

And so it was last Thanksgiving. Eight arrived in time for a sit-down meal in the front room of the dangerously-leaning downtown Victorian my then-partner and I shared. Others trickled in throughout the evening for drinks and nibbles. It was a magnificent feast of mismatched essentials, food-memories from a dozen households. I had spent all day in the kitchen producing my favorites: the almonds, cranberry and orange salsa, wild rice with onions. We had a traditional bird and a tofurkey; at least two kinds of pie, and candied green beans that put me over the moon. I felt last year that I had inducted myself into a special circle of women, cooks, hearth-tenders. I was hostess to a Thanksgiving meal; my local beloved in my house, laughing. Happy.

Yesterday the holiday turned over again. I had debated for weeks whether or not to host a meal in my new home. I have this dining room, see – an actual whole room just for eating – and it seemed quite obvious and appropriate that I would break it in with a homeful of friends and food. But the troops were not rallied in time, and my beloved scattered about the city to other homes and other traditions. It was one part disappointment and five million parts relief. These papers, I thought. I can just hole-up while the rest of the world parties and I can write these darned papers and have a long weekend of peace – without delayed flights or polishing silver or crying with Mom in the kitchen over pie crusts. And there would be no huge pile of dishes on Friday morning, and no stains to scrub out of the table cloth. This year it felt OK to plan a quiet night. I would be thankful for peace and productivity. But no one likes to think of an “orphan” on Thanksgiving, and so the invitations dribbled in.

Lady J spent $90 on specially ordered organic, free-range, and emotionally stable turkey. D has a standing annual date with his out-of-state friends at the Marrakesh. K called a few weeks ago and asked if we could just go out somewhere, anything so that we could call it a holiday. I am no fan of double-booking an evening, but I thought I could make it to two events provided, of course, that one were amply late in the day. And I would have passed the afternoon in J’s kitchen, chatting and laughing as we always do (and of course ogling and nibbling at the WonderTurkey), had it not been for a small, white, innocuous-looking muscle relaxer that put me out for the better part of Wednesday and turned my legs (and my head) to Jell-O until well into Thursday afternoon. I’ll just say, though this has nothing to do with food or my feelings about Thanksgiving, that expiration dates of prescription drugs should maybe be taken seriously.

Yesterday I woke early and puttered on my computer, read the news, brewed many pots of coffee. I edited the grant I’ve been working on; I shuffled and unshuffled class notes. I made turkey tacos for myself for lunch (an unplanned irony), and ate them standing in my quiet, clean kitchen. My mom emailed me a photo of her centerpiece, titled “Minus 7 and counting.” When I called and they passed the phone around, I missed them. Of course I did. I sure am getting a lot of attention, my brother said. E came over midday for breakfast and recipe hunting and was soon off to a meal at someone else’s house, where he intended to douse the candied yams in flaming rum. My family loves you, he told me on his way to my kitchen. And then I started to miss them, too.

By seven the rain stopped and I was out the door to finally have my celebratory meal – Jake’s Grill with Lady K. Jake’s, if you have not been, feels substantial. It’s in downtown Portland, on 10th, in Governor Hotel. Marketed as a steaks’n'chops “comfort food” spot, it is, as far as I am concerned, over-priced and under-inspired. And I hate, hate, having to pay extra for a side of veggies. However, Jake’s is gorgeous. The servers are in white jackets and black ties. The floor is hex tile. Dark wood carved pillars (or columns – what’s the difference, anyway?) stretch up to the super-tall ceiling. And the food is gorgeous, too – it all looks and tastes just like you’re expecting it to: nothing to worry about. First on their Thanksgiving menu was roasted turkey, etc., which K ordered. I had a a piece of salmon, beurre rouge, spuds. The food was fine; the Syrah was great, and I got to sit and talk with my good friend who I don’t see nearly enough.

I left the restaurant feeling empowered, free. This could be my new tradition, I thought. To hell with the stress and the anxiety and the mess and trying to please everyone. My high didn´t last long, though. Maybe I need a few more years of experiment: more friends, different restaurants, no deadlines looming, but I don´t think I am ready to give up the mess, the neuroses, the warmth, my traditions. I never for a moment thought that the bird might slip from greasy potholders and bounce on the tile – and it just didn’t feel the same. And I can make Alice’s pumpkin chiffon pie any day of the year if I want to, but it won’t taste the same without staring at Mom’s centerpiece or drinking coffee with ground cinnamon or – or the kind of warmth you can’t create in a restaurant. Family meals are intimate, aren’t they? – not meant to be delivered by harried servers who are too busy to make eye contact.

In writing this, I keep changing my mind. It’s all about the food, I want to say. I am attached to these cultural markers inherited from my family of origin. They signify decades of predictable celebration. They mean we are all here together, that we have taken the time out of our lives apart from one another to be together. And it could be May or October or the third Thursday in November. Like a seder, we eat this meal for its symbolism – because it helps us focus on these valuable intangibles.

But then I begin to argue with myself. Are you mad? I begin. Like any object, food only has the power and the meaning that you give it. Eat pickles and calzone on Thanksgiving. Eat them in a box with a fox; or on a train in the rain – just don’t forget that feeling.

These are in-between years, I think. I haven’t lived with my parents for ages, but I don’t fully reside in my own home either. I may inhabit these rooms, even one designated just for eating, but my heart, especially in the winter, is running up and down the West Coast. These are in-between years of deciding how my life will be, I think; and this includes tradtitions and values. In defining and re-defining these preferences it’s not surprsing that I seem a bit adrift. Maybe Food v. Feelling is a false dichotomy; maybe they cannot be separated, especially in one so dedicated to both food and warm fuzzy feelings as I am.

I can say one thing for sure: I do miss the leftovers.