Serving Up A Slice Of Retro

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

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Glued to the front of our massive console TV, my brothers and I faithfully watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade every year. Large zeppelins, tethered by armies of pedestrians, gave life to our preferred cartoon characters. Mischievous attempts by Rocky or Bullwinkle to escape the grasp of their ground crew on a windy day was horrifying. Convinced of an immediate trajectory to outer space, we sighed with relief as a vigilant attendant gallantly jumped to reclaim the line, securing order back in the queue.

A particular parade highlight for me was admiring the precision of the Kilgore Rangerettes. Determined to be a bona fide member someday, I practiced their moves in our garage. My lack of coordination and the fact that they hailed from the faraway land of Texas was of little concern to my delusions of drill team grandeur.

Food, of course, was also a big part of the holiday. I enjoyed the comforting chatter of Mom and Grandma as they bustled about our small kitchen. An unspoken understood division of tasks, honed over years of communal shindigs, had them each in their own choreographed moves, maneuvering around the other, whisking and stirring and laughing.

Staying up late the eve prior, Mom slaved over her apple and pumpkin confections. Known for, and intensely proud of her pie skills, Mom finished the marathon ritual by rolling leftover dough scraps into a ball filled with sugar and cinnamon. The cut slices were baked, and the coveted festive snack we dubbed “pinwheels” was the prize awarded to those still awake, having seen and smelled this task to fruition. The house held that luxurious aromatherapy all night into the coveted day of feasting.

Grandma was the Savant of Starch. Her spuds simmered to perfect doneness in the potato well of her 1940s Chambers range. She would rice, then whip them into silken delight, escorting them to our house in her signature Dutch oven. A Pepperidge Farm aficionado, sage stuffing cubes in their humble bag from the A&P underwent a magical transformation with Grandma’s secret doings. She also made the traditional fruited jello salad, complete with a Cool Whip crown, patiently stirred homemade gravy, and always brought a box of Russell Stover chocolates to provide efficient sustenance throughout the day.

Mom handled the bird, the pies, and a canned ham, to appease Dad who hated fowl. I was allowed to wind open the tin. Back then I thought all hams were this shape; that the chopped, pressed, overly salted, water-added, gelatinous amalgamation defined the real deal. Mom worked full-time in addition to running the household and tending after three kids so I never knew if she liked this “ham” or used the sub-par convenience product out of spite on an already busy culinary occasion.

My nearby aunt, not much of a cook, was in charge of the vegetable, and always proffered the requested two boxes of frozen lima beans, an easily purchased option then seasoned and steamed by Grandma. We all loved Auntie, but no one wanted her near the stove. She happily sat in a chair under the wall phone to kibbitz with the ladies, act as receptionist for incoming calls, and offer a fly-by hug or two as we youngsters impatiently ran through food central.

Montovani played on the stereo after the parade, the adults humming to the familiar orchestral arrangements. This was the closest I got to a symphony as Dad loathed driving into the city for such things. But the richness of that background music added a fulfilling layer of loveliness to the house.

The event was absolutely splendid in my humble youthful opinion. Every folding chair and card table we owned was put to use. We lit candles, ate from the “good” china, and crammed around the table with a crowd of relatives, a smorgasbord of unmatched, loving warmth.

Mom and Dad poured Mogen David, Lancers, and Mateuse with reckless abandon. After grace was recited – “God bless this food that (insert a brother’s name) just ate” – the storytelling gathered momentum to match. We kids lingered at the table for these family hysterics, and I only wish I remembered more.

It didn’t matter that parts of the meal would be scoffed at by gourmands. What mattered was that our comedic band of kin was together. For that snapshot of time, we existed as one. It was a day we youngsters were spoiled with a taste of wine and an abundance of sweets, food, and love.

Thanksgiving continues to be one of my favorite holidays. To this day, if the Macy’s parade happens to be on, I still bend an ear for those Rangerettes, watching them with a smile as I reflect on my own high school drill team days.

I am the next generation of the pie baking regime, and my leftover scraps now become those same spirals of long ago. The gratitude on my brothers’ faces when these nuggets of the past emerge from the oven makes it worth the effort and warms my heart.

Classical music remains our first choice for the day. Having studied the violin and marrying a violist, I appreciate its beautiful complexity even more. Adult daughters add everything from pop to Sinatra, infusing spunky personality to our ambiance. Their vibe delivers the contemporary sprinkles on steadfast tradition. It is, after all, a family affair.

While we now have more elbow room at that same table with our smaller crew, it is no less populated with stories, laughs, and good conversation.

This year, 2020, the year of the seemingly endless pandemic, will be different, for everyone, but the day does not have to be less meaningful. May we all dig deep and allow love and memories, like the candles on the table, illuminate what really matters. Let us acknowledge thanksgiving, in all its ways, and may it restore, sustain, and nourish us. Today and forevermore.