We’re driving to New Orleans tomorrow to spend Thanksgiving
with our two daughters. The younger one
is still in college and the older one has graduated and stayed in New
Orleans. Her boyfriend is a chef at one
of the top restaurants in town and he’ll be preparing the meal for us and
approximately twenty-five of their closest friends. The menu includes Roast Suckling Pig, Turkey
with Oyster Stuffing, Sweet Potato Casserole with Apple Puree, and Cheddar
Biscuits with Olives, among other things.
“Shall I
bring a Green Bean Casserole?” I asked my daughter tentatively.
“No, mom,
thanks. We’ve got it covered,” she
responded in a tone indicating she saw trouble coming and was attempting to
head it off.
As with
most of the country, we’re approaching this most-American of all holidays with
a great deal of anticipation and reservation.
Where else but at Thanksgiving do you celebrate so much togetherness,
love, and unresolved conflict around a big, heavily-laden table? Add a well-stocked bar to the mix and the potential
for family drama goes through the roof.
I’ve
promised my husband to be on my best behavior.
My
daughter, when I talked to her last week, sounded confident and
unconcerned. After all, she and Mason
hosted a similar crowd last Thanksgiving and everything went off without a
hitch, except for the deep-fried turkey which somehow got left in the fryer
after someone broke out the Jamaican Qualude Shooters. We were not at this celebration but have
heard the legendary stories of the charred turkey which was greeted (perhaps
owing to the Jamaican Qualudes) with cheers and gales of laughter. Mason served it up on a silver tray.
I am
determined that this year’s Thanksgiving will go off without a hitch, by God. I will help my daughter whether she wants it
or not.
“Shall I
bring the sterling?” I asked her.
“No, mom,
please don’t.”
“Oh? Do you have enough silverware for twenty-five
people?”
“Actually,
this year I’m making it easy on myself and everyone else. I’m using throw-away plates, utensils, and
glasses.”
“You’re
using plastic? For Thanksgiving?”
There was a
pause while I imagined my daughter rolling her eyes and making obscene gestures
at the phone. Still, she majored in
psychology. Her education comes in handy
when profiling serial killers or dealing with passive-aggressive mothers. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was calm
and detached.
“Actually,
they make really cute plastic ware these days.
It looks a lot like the real stuff.
You won’t be able to tell until you pick it up.”
“Oh?” I
said doubtfully. “Well, if you’re okay
with that.”
“I am,
mom. I’m okay with it.”
My husband,
seated across the room, was slowing drawing his finger across his throat and
shaking his head.
“Oh, all
right,” I said to him later. “I won’t
say a word about anything. I’ll just
keep my mouth shut and drink Jamaican Qualades with everyone else and let
Lauren and Mason handle everything.”
“I think
that would be best,” he said agreeably.
We leave
tomorrow for Thanksgiving in New Orleans.
I have been meditating to ready myself for the occasion.
No doubt, my daughter is doing the
same.
