 |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | | | PRACTICAL WISDOM FOR LEADING CONGREGATIONS |
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My maternal grandmother, Ella Cook, took her mincemeat recipe to the grave with her. She was a teetotaling EUB of the old school, who regarded merger with the Methodists in 1968 as merely the latest apostasy from the old United Brethren ways, which had been handed down at Mount Sinai as codicils to the Ten Commandments. A glass of wine was as serious an affront to her sensibilities as a day of fun would have been to those of Increase Mather. She had no problem, though, requesting a fifth of brandy each November, to be added to the mysterious blend of ingredients that went into her mincemeat. The brandy made it all "work," she said, and her mincemeat pies -- "the baking gets rid of all the alcohol" -- were the stuff of legend in our family. They were absolutely essential to Thanksgiving; turkey was optional. Saint Peter now munches happily while those of us remaining in the church militant endure privation. I was a student at Lebanon Valley College -- formerly EUB -- before I understood the historical importance of Grandma Ella's recipe. The poor English folk from whom she was descended seldom enjoyed meat in their diets; this was reserved for the upper classes. Mincemeat, then, was a means of transforming a small amount of beef of indeterminate quality -- think "The Cook's Tale" in Chaucer -- into a palatable form with a reasonable shelf life. The brandy was essential. EUB lifers at Lebanon Valley knew the story well. Grandma Ella's mincemeat, then, was emblematic of our family's journey. It recalled a time when our ancestors had little, were an oppressed class, and struggled for survival. Had we understood all this as I was growing up, we could have cherished Grandma Cook's mincemeat as EUB matzo and narrated the family history as we enjoyed her pies, celebrating the exodus from poverty in England and the pilgrimage to plenty in America. We could have given appropriate thanks, recalling the place we used to be. Thanksgiving encourages this nuanced celebration, though the contemporary American holiday veers to the side of conspicuous consumption without the reflection upon our origins. There is the requisite Thanksgiving Proclamation by the president; the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, culminating in the appearance of Santa Claus; numerous football games, NFL and collegiate; and the eager anticipation of Black Friday, the day-after-Thanksgiving shopping melee that has been known to result in fatality. The Pilgrims who celebrated the first Thanksgiving in 1621, after a dreadful year of illness and hunger, would be appalled. |
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The table was set with the good china. Platters of fried chicken and bowls of greens and vegetables lined the table. I was sitting at the big feast with my extended family. But I barely filled my plate on that warm Thanksgiving Day in 1999.
I couldn't smell the roasted turkey. The aroma of sweet potato casserole and the buttery perfume of homemade cakes and pies filled the room but did not register with me.
It was the first Thanksgiving after I had brain surgery, and I wasn't feeling particularly thankful.
I was depressed over losing my sense of smell -- and the vision in one eye. A neurosurgeon had removed a benign tumor, and two months later, I was still broken and battered. I retreated to a corner. My mother's cheery and familiar face was the only bright spot that day.
Thanksgiving had been one of my favorite holidays. From childhood into early adulthood, I spent most Thanksgivings with my maternal grandparents in Lynchburg, Virginia.
The ritual started in the morning, when my grandfather, Papa, killed a hog. Later that day, the extended family would gather for turkey with all the trimmings: yeast rolls, stuffing, coconut pie and sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top. It was a magical place and time.
My grandfather or uncles would say grace, expressing our deep feelings of gratitude for having each other, a roof over our heads and all the things we needed, plus some of the things we wanted. The table was a symbol of the bounty of my family. The house was warm. It was full of food. My relatives were there. Even as a child, I had recognized that I was blessed -- dressed in my black velvet skirt with matching hot pants and Shirley Temple curls.
But in 1999, I was filled with anger, mourning my losses. I was struggling to understand what had happened -- I had gone to the doctor on a Wednesday because I had a floater in my eye, and the following Monday I was having a 5 ½-hour surgery. |
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On the Thanksgiving my mother stuffed the turkey with something other than her traditional recipe -- a rich swirl of fruit, vegetables, spices and bread -- my cousins were distraught, making no effort to hide their disappointment.
"It's not Thanksgiving without Aunt Mary's stuffing," one of them said, and he was right to crave its moist goodness and refuse all substitutes. It really was that delicious.
I was as much a fan of my aunt's Middle Eastern dishes -- my mother's younger sister married a doctor from Palestine, by way of Lebanon -- and later learned to cook some of them on my own.
My memories of childhood Thanksgivings are of large families gathered at candlelit tables laden with food, the heady scent of cumin, nutmeg and cardamom, the clink of plates being filled, the feel of hot, dark turkey meat on the tongue, and familiar tastes that refuse to be captured in words.
I linger in these memories, savoring them as they burst in my awareness like pomegranate seeds crunched between my teeth.
These meals were -- and are -- true moments of thanksgiving, because they remind us of our vulnerability and interdependence. A land of easy consumption both breeds and thrives on forgetfulness, a failure to remember that there are precious few things we, as humans, absolutely need. |
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