THANKSGIVING 1952

A sudden rush of happy energy would race through my entire body like a surge of static electricity when from my back bedroom, upstairs on Montague Street, I’d hear the quick, sharp snap of the latch on the little china cabinet in our dining room being pulled open.

In our house, that brief, seemingly inconsequential sound screamed celebration! Today’s particular “snap” signaled the official beginning of Thanksgiving 1952.

Still in my pajamas, I would run in my bare feet downstairs to find my mother carefully removing her treasured pieces of stem ware followed by the gold edged, flowered pattern china dishes that were a wedding gift from her parents. A crisp, white linen tablecloth lay folded on the polished dining room table like alter linen before high mass. Check mark…step one.

It was the day before the big event and I hated having to get ready for school, but duty called and I found consolation, knowing upon my return I’d open the door to the welcoming aroma of baking pies. Apple, pumpkin, mincemeat, all complimented, once placed between my mother, Annie’s laudable crusts. The house was beginning to take on the warm, magical feeling that comes at Thanksgiving and lingers until New Year’s Day.

The night before the momentous occasion, Ronnie and I sat at the little worn, white enamel table in our kitchen, it’s faded stenciled red lined border showing the wear of many years of family meals it held. We watched our mother chop onions and celery. Our job was tearing loaves of white bread into pieces and tossing it into the large yellow stoneware bowl on the table.

Next came stalks of celery, selectively chosen to be cut into lengths measuring about 2 or 3 inches, depending on who was cutting. Having been stuffed with soft cream cheese, an artistically placed thin slice of pimento stuffed green olive was carefully placed on one end of each piece. These delicacies would pass as our interpretation of a fancy canape.

There were food rituals to be honored when planning the O’Meara Thanksgiving table. Turnips were a must! In later years, I came to discover that what my family referred to as turnips were in fact, rutabagas; big, yellowish, waxy and almost impossible to cut. They also appeared on the dinner table the following night mixed with the leftover mashed potatoes. Cranberry sauce was a holiday stable. Again, not until later did I notice that cranberry sauce actually did come minus indented circular rings.

The first course of our banquet always began with fruit cocktail served in coupe style stemmed glasses. Coming next, bowls of mashed potatoes and the turnips having been vigorously mashed by my mother using her handheld masher with the worn green handle. There was stuffing, gravy, corn, peas and home make coleslaw, the cabbage having been chopped, we were reminded with the knife my paternal grandmother had brought over from Ireland.

The feast looked exquisite and inviting laid out before us on the crisp white linen tablecloth. At the corner of the table near my father’s place at the head, was a vacant spot read to accept the nucleus of all culinary power…the turkey!

My father would carry the perfectly browned bird in from the kitchen… and resplendent it was, coming to us upon the wedding gifted china platter, while receiving praises of ooooo’s and ahhhh’s from us all.

Every year prior to the carving ritual, and following the question, “who wants a drumstick?’ my father would lower his voice to a tone of seriousness and proclaim, “well, who knows, this could be my last Thanksgiving carving the turkey.” Maybe it was his Irish flair for the dramatic, but we would all assure him that he would live forever, or, I thought, at least long enough to say grace and get this party started.

There were compliments to my mother about her gravy and how it tasted as though she had made it with holy water. My mother would only say, “I’m glad you like it” as she sat in her place, the perfect hostess, wearing lipstick, which was another sign that we were present at a special occasion.

On the big day, Annie did all the work herself. The day of Thanksgiving, no one was permitted in the kitchen. There was a reason for this rule.

I mentioned my mother’s gravy. Her secret was, she drained the water from all of the cooked vegetables into one pot. That is the water that she would mix with flour and seasoning and pour into the turkey drippings. The flavors from the potatoes, turnips, peas and corn all melded together to produce a gravy supreme.

Having only a small drain board on her sink and the top of the equally small stove on which to work, my mother would place her pot of drained “holy”water into the sink. The previous year, my sister, then 8 years old had somehow convinced my mother to let her help in the kitchen. In what was probably a weak and frazzled moment my mother agreed.

Ronnie happily grabbed a dish rag and proceeded to wipe the kitchen table, removing any remnants of splashes or crumbs that might have found their way there during meal prep. Everything was fine until my sister threw the dish rag into the pot of “holy”water before pouring the sacred contents down the drain!

Annie was beyond angry. She was beyond distraught. She was raving mad; banishing a startled Ronnie from the kitchen. This kid, who had in one swift move plucked the center diamond out of the meal’s crowning glory was only trying to help.

Ronnie has told me, that to this day, every time she makes turkey gravy she remembers how angry at her our mother was, and she laughs.

When I think of those Thanksgivings and my mother, I wish that I had been aware of how hard she had worked to prepare those huge meals and she did it all without the convenience of any modern appliances, working for days in that tiny, little row house kitchen that had no counter tops and still she managed to look lovely sitting at the table, happy that we were all “enjoying it.”

Years have passed and faces around the family Thanksgiving tables have changed, yet treasured memories have brought turnips and the cranberry sauce with the can rings to new generations.

My sister and I are still trying to replicate the gravy made with holy water, but neither of us have quite yet mastered it.

The knife from Ireland no longer chops the cabbage for my grandmother’s coleslaw, but the recipe lives on.

Annie’s treasured china, the wedding gift from her parents now resides in the home of her granddaughter, Kathy as does the old china closet that held them.

We also have many new Thanksgiving mishaps that have brought us exuberant laughter and new memories.

To all of my readers, Happy Thanksgiving!