An early Thanksgiving...

We spent today in the kitchen.... the cranberry sauce is made, as is the oyster dressing, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes. The dressing and the sweet potatoes are half-baked, and will finish baking on Tuesday morning, the day we're celebrating Thanksgiving this year. The mashed potatoes will be re-heated in the oven and they will come out soft and incredibly fluffy. The turkey has been defrosting in the fridge for two days now, and tomorrow I will set it up in the baking pan and get it ready for the oven on Tuesday morning.

Our friends C and R from upstate NY will be here tomorrow afternoon, as well as our friends K and B from downtown Houston. The six of us will have an early Thanksgiving because C and R are going to Austin for the "real" Thanksgiving day, then they're flying back to the probably snow-covered mountains of northern NY. It will be nice to have the six of us sitting around the dining room table again. We will have a spaghetti dinner tomorrow night, then our Thanksgiving dinner on Tuesday afternoon.

These pre-Thanksgiving preparations were long-ago practiced by my Aunt Dolly and my grandmother, who got as much cooking done as they could before the holiday instead of trying to do everything on the day of the holiday. My grandparents' home had two full kitchens in it, but still, with more than twenty-five family members there, trying to cook everything on either Thanksgiving morning or Christmas morning would have been a trial. So the pots and pans came out days before the rest of the family started driving to that wonderful old house, and when my grandmother and my Aunt Dolly sat down to have their holiday dinners, they weren't exhausted from all the last-minute preparations.

Back in the day, my grandparents' holiday dinner would be a full day's marathon of a meal. From early afternoon till nearly 9:00 at night, there was a different food course on the dining room table, as well as the "children's table" in the kitchen. They started off with an Italian feast..... either ravioli or lasagna, followed by the meatballs, beef, and sausage cooked in the sauce, followed by Italian bread and salad, then fruit and nuts. Then all of my aunts went into the kitchen and put away left-overs and washed the dishes. My uncles would either take a walk with Major, my grandfather's German Shepard, or they would play cards in the dining room. Sometimes, one of the uncles would ask my grandmother if she wanted any help, and she'd always say the same thing-- "You can help by staying out of my kitchen." (Spoken in Italian, of course.) The kids would go out into the yard to run and play, or on the glassed-in front porch to play quietly-- so we could listen to the uncles playing cards.

Then came the "American" part of the meal..... the turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, green vegetables, cranberry sauce, applesauce. When that was eaten, once again all my aunts went into the kitchen to store away left-overs and wash the dishes. Again, my uncles would be playing cards in the dining room or walking Major around the block. The kids would be in the porch playing games: Monopoly. Pick-up Sticks. Jacks. Paper dolls. Cards.

A couple of hours later, out would come the desserts... Italian pastries, cookies and pies. The pastries from the neighborhood Italian bakery, the cookies and pies from my grandmother's kitchen. Coffee for the adults, milk for the kids. My grandmother didn't believe in soda. "Too many bubbles. Not good for your stomach," she would tell us, half the words in English, half in Italian.

By nine or ten o'clock at night, the aunts and uncles and cousins would start saying good-night. My Aunt Dolly would be wrapping up left-overs for everyone, and we would all be telling her that we couldn't eat another bite for at least two days. Maybe three. "Just take it and eat it whenever you want," my Aunt would tell us.

Back in the day. But not these days. Strangers are living in the family home now, and have been for two years. My grandfather built that house with his own hands in 1922. He vowed no one but la familia would ever live it in, for as long as it stood on its foundation. When he said that, he had no idea how the neighborhood would change and evolve.... had no inkling that his eldest daughter, my Aunt Dolly, would not be safe living there alone in her late 90s.

I think that's why I write here. In these words, in this blog, there is a definite time-warp. As I look at the screen and watch the letters pop up, there is no distance between now and then. The family is still in that big old house in Queens. My grandparents are still alive, my grandmother is telling Grandpa that "men don't grow up, they just get old." My aunts are still in the kitchen, my uncles are still playing cards. No matter what time or what day you go there, my Aunt Dolly has just cleaned the floors, so wipe your feet! Me and my cousins are playing Monopoly on the front porch. My dad is there, standing against the warm radiator in the kitchen, singing Italian songs and sounding (and looking) like Dean Martin. My mother is there, sitting by the kitchen window near Grandpa, and she is young and laughing, helping Grandpa with his game of Solitaire. My sister is there and telling my Aunt Jaye that her lipstick is too dark so she won't kiss her goodnight.

In my mind's eye, everyone is still there, happy and healthy, smiling, laughing and celebrating in that big old wonderful house. I see them as always happy, always together, always family.

In my mind's eye. It's a good place to be. Happy Thanksgiving.