Eating alone

 

Thanksgiving is not the same this year. There are no family gatherings to sit around the table and eat a stuffed bird. There is no rushing to the store after leaving work to get the final ingredients for the pumpkin pie. There is no fighting over who gets the larger frozen carcass or how many cases of booze will be needed to keep the crowd hydrated.

Thanksgiving is the day known for cooking. All the smells and pots and pans and laughter in the kitchen are Thanksgiving. All that grub can still be prepared and placed on the table with all the fine china but there is just seating for one. You can FaceTime or Zoom with others in far away locations but they can’t pass the yams. No one else will wash the dishes.

Maybe this time of quarantines and isolation has taught us how to care for ourselves? Maybe we can start appreciating what we have and what is meaningful except to gorge on the third Thursday of November?

For years, I’ve tried to carry on the tradition of Turkey Day just to have the flavors of the day. The turkey got smaller, the cranberry sauce came out of a can and the potatoes were pre-made. The oven was never touched because every course was microwave.

This year even the Tummy Temple was calm. No long social distant lines. No fights over cornstarch. All the shelves seemed well stocked. The thrill of the day is gone.

Not being a chef or even a cook, this year was turkey slices with Swiss cheese on flax bread with mayo. Served on a paper towel. No muss. No fuss.

Since it was such a beautiful day, my project was to get rid of a grill that has been sitting alone for years. Rather than just tossing it, I gave it a last hurrah. The bag of charcoal I’ve been stepping over for years was lit and I stood watching the smoke fill until there was a flame. Dusting off the aluminum foil to wrap around potatoes, onions, corn and mushrooms. After a couple of hours, I removed all the silver cocooned items. As the briquettes turned to white dust I tossed on four hamburger patties. The smoke billowed around the neighborhood smelling like the Fourth of July.

To share the Thanksgiving feast, the yard family got a treat of walnuts and pecans. They were at first quizzical about the new nuts, but they figured it out and at the end of the day, the yard was empty.

The refrigerator is stuffed. The yard babies are stuffed. My tummy is stuffed.

And there are no dishes to wash.