When I was little, most of our family traditions centered around our Ukrainian grandparents, which meant they centered around the Jewish holidays. Passover and Chanukah were the big celebrations, with enough brisket and potato latkes to feed a regiment. (For a little bit of Christmas, I’d get my gentile friends to invite me to their homes to help decorate the trees and get a sugar rush from the piles of Christmas cookies and ribbon candy.)

The all-American traditions didn’t begin until my sister Merna and I were a little older, and we had moved with our mother to the Washington, D.C., area, and the grandparents couldn’t see what we were doing. (That was also when bacon first found its way into our refrigerator, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that quiet.)

Anyway, I was thinking the other day about the approaching Turkey Day holiday, which then started me looking back at some of the best moments of Thanksgivings past. Like the year the turkey hit the floor.

We had long since decided that no one should be alone for the holidays, and so we always had one or more “orphans” sharing the day with us — someone who couldn’t be with their own family for whatever reason. On this particular Thanksgiving day — when I was in my late teens — the guests were a young man I had been dating, who was stationed locally in the military, and a couple of his friends from his base. Luckily, they were all in the living room when the turkey took its trip.

We were already enjoying pre-dinner drinks — a variety of cocktails, which were the fashion of the day. And since it only took a few sips of any alcohol for my mother to get really happy, she was already gaining maximum mileage from her whisky sour while cooking for the guests gathered in the other room.

All was well until the turkey was ready to be served, and I was lifting it from its roasting pan while my mother held the big serving platter in place . . . more or less. Suddenly, just as I was settling the 16 pounds of dead weight onto the platter, the room must have tilted because that platter was no longer level . . . and neither was the bird. At precisely the instant I was removing the two forks from its front and rear ends, gravity took over and Mr. Turkey went sliding determinedly toward the kitchen floor, landing on its back with a loud and distinctive “plop.”

The only saving grace — well, graces — were the music and laughter coming from the living room that covered the sounds from the kitchen; and the peninsula that blocked the visitors’ view of my mother and me, down on our knees, swearing like longshoremen and laughing like a pair of drunken idiots as we slid that baby back onto the platter before the 12-second rule took effect. I peeked over the edge of the countertop to be sure no one was looking, and we stood up in unison, carefully hoisting the newly-plated turkey — now level once more — safely onto the solid surface of the peninsula. No one was the wiser — and we decided that since nobody eats the back of the turkey anyway . . . well, what the hell.

People did wonder why, throughout the dinner, Mother and I would periodically look at each other and burst into fits of giggling. But we would simply pass the stuffing or the sweet potatoes — or another slice of turkey — and change the subject.

*. *. *

Our mother was not always an easy woman to get along with, which — in terms of understatement — is like saying hurricanes are annoying. Her mood could change from cheerful to demonic without notice, and throughout the years Merna and I had found that, in order not to ruin a holiday, it was best to keep her drinking.

But some of the best times she and I had together were spent in the kitchen. She loved to cook and bake, and so did I (Merna, not so much); so holidays were the perfect excuse for a marathon of both — cooking and baking — for the two of us. And Thanksgiving topped them all.

There were two days of preparation: shopping for all the last-minute food on D-day minus two; and on D-day minus one, the pie (or pies) would be baked; ingredients prepped for the stuffing, to be assembled the following morning; my special cranberry sauce simmered into a delectable, cinnamon-and-clove-spiced confection; and the table set with the good china and stemware.

Then on the big day, we would be up at the crack of dawn (not my favorite thing, but worth the small sacrifice), when she would start the intricate process of creating her special stuffing — or dressing, to you southern folks. And it was my job to actually get that finished product into the turkey’s cavity — also known as its asshole — and then to sew it up . . . with a big needle and heavy thread . . . because those metal clamps were thought at the very least to impart some disgusting flavor to the turkey, and at worst to strike everyone dead from lead poisoning. She never could be convinced that there was no lead in them, but that’s a whole other story.

Two full days of preparation, and somehow it all managed to come together just as the doorbell rang and the first “orphan” arrived.

After my mother passed away, Merna and I tried to keep the traditions alive, and for a number of years we came close. But it was never quite the same, mostly because my cooking partner wasn’t there. And now, when November rolls around each year, I start imagining that I’ve got my hand up that bird’s ass; and I can smell the roasting turkey and the pies and cranberry sauce, and feel the anticipation of the coming month of Christmas shopping and carols and Rudolph and Frosty and trimming the tree and peace on Earth good will toward men and . . .

Damn, how I miss those days! Now we have Christmas starting in July, and shopping online, and Thanksgiving getting buried in all the other stuff.

So don’t try to tell me the “good old days” weren’t really that great. Because I know better.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/12/24