“Gratitude doesn’t change the scenery. It merely washes clean the glass you look through so you can clearly see the colors.” ~ Richelle E. Goodrich
This Thanksgiving I'll be celebrating with my son and daughter-in-law and perhaps a few friends of theirs. This will be the first time I've been in California for this holiday since 1987. My gratitude this year, of course, centers about being back home once more after all these years. I'm thankful to be warm once again, after all the years of holiday snow and ice...and for seeing the sun shine in the late autumn and winter.
I well remember those family celebrations of my childhood...and how Mama and Grandma Gertie planned them out, to the last roll and celery stick. Five years ago I wrote the story below about one such typical planning session. I posted this last year, but it's one of my favorite stories, so I'm posting it again...an author's prerogative.
Spellbound by Swanky
Swigs
This past November I laid in a good supply of cheese spreads…for
stuffing celery for Thanksgiving dinner, of course. My grocer still stocks
those little Kraft jars with the savory olive pimiento and roka blue flavors
I’ve always loved, but I regret that now they’re sold in plain little glass
jars, not the glamorous red tulip or blue cornflower juice glasses of my
girlhood. Even so, I could hardly wait to get the jars home and once again sample
my favorite canapé.
Of course, if they were still around, Grandma and Mama probably
would laugh at my nostalgia, just as they laughed at those glasses in their
l940s heyday, and at Auntie Dorothy who always toted them to our holiday feast.
Even as a girl I realized that when it came to holiday dinners, my female
forbears were culinary elitists with rigid ideas about appropriate bills of
fare. Cheese-stuffed celery, in their view, was just plain cheesy. And Grandma
and Mama could be downright catty.
Looking back, it seems as if every year as soon as we set
aside the candy corn and jack-o'-lanterns, Grandma and Mama would huddle
in the kitchen to conduct their annual Thanksgiving dinner debate.
One year when I was twelve, the awkward age, too old for
toys, too young for boys, I joined the women in the kitchen, volunteering to
peel potatoes or shell peas. I had seen Grandma pull her writing tablet and
yellow pencil out of her purse, and knew that the confab was about to begin. The
two would bicker and banter on the venue and the menu…and then get down to the
real family gossip as they discussed who would bring what. I didn’t want to
miss a word.
“We’ll do it again at my house, since I have the larger
dining room,” Grandma began.
“But our house is so much more accessible,” Mama countered.
“I have a kitchen table for the children,” Grandma parried.
I smiled to myself. Grandma always won this argument. Never
in my memory had the family gathered elsewhere, but Mama always felt obligated
to put in her pitch. I’d overheard her tell Daddy she didn’t know how she’d
accommodate everybody if Grandma ever actually gave in.
“I’ve been thinking about the menu. Maybe a ham would be
nice this year,” Mama ventured, winking at me. I knew she loved to tease
Grandma.
“Oh, Mama, that sounds wonderful, and with pineapple
garnishes!” I chimed in, conspiratorially.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s Thanksgiving. We’ll have turkey
just as we always do,” Grandma folded her arms and stared at the two us as if
we’d both lost our senses.
Mama nodded. “OK, I’ll
bake the pumpkin pies.”
“And I’ll make lemon meringue, since you know that the boys
don’t like pumpkin.”
Grandma tapped her
pencil on the table. “Should we ask Joe and Julia if they’d do the sweet
potatoes and mashed potatoes? Joe always eats three times more potatoes than
everybody else put together, so maybe if they’re in charge they’ll bring enough
to go around.”
Mama and I grinned. Burly Uncle Joe could be counted on to
ensure there’d be no leftover spuds. When he’d ask for his fourth helping, Aunt
Julia would pass him the bowl with a big smile, proud of her trencherman
spouse.
“And what about Teddy?” Mama loved her bachelor stepbrother,
but knew he couldn’t cook worth a whit.
“Let’s ask him to bring some wine,” Grandma said, gnawing on
her pencil. “He makes plenty of dough, so maybe we should suggest champagne.”
Mama brightened. I don’t think I’d ever seen champagne at a
family feast, and I don’t recall Mama and Daddy having any even on New Year’s
Eve.
“Poor Opal can bring the green bean casserole,” Grandma
continued. I perked up, waiting for more information. It was true that Auntie
Opal always looked pale and tired, but I wasn’t certain why.
“Well, the way Jim drinks, Opal has to look after the house,
the jewelry shop and raise those kids
practically on her own. It’ll be a wonder if she finds the energy to open a can
of onion rings,” Mama observed.
Grandma stared at her tablet and scribbled a few words.
“I’ll do the turkey, stuffing and gravy, and you can make some rolls. I guess
Dorothy will bring the celery,” Grandma said, looking up. “And she’ll think
she’s done something special when she brings that dreadful processed cheese in
those dinky little glasses.”
Mama snickered, but I held my breath. I loved helping Auntie
Dorothy stuff the celery, and adored the elegant flowered glasses she said were
mine.
Mama sighed. “Just because she and Roy never had children is
no reason for her not to learn to cook. She should be making decent suppers for
her husband instead of expecting him to live on baked beans and bacon
sandwiches.”
I set down my potato peeler and waited expectantly. I couldn’t
imagine Daddy’s reaction if Mama put such a meal before him, but it sure
sounded tasty to me.
“Roy
has the patience of a saint,” Grandma said, shaking her head. “Imagine that
woman off to the church every day to play the piano for choir practice, when
she should be cleaning that little apartment.” I’d been to those practices with
Auntie Dorothy. The choir even let me sing along, even though I knew I wasn’t
quite on pitch.
On Thanksgiving we gathered at Grandma’s. Uncle Jim greeted
us jovially, smelling of equal parts Old Spice and Old Crow. Uncle Joe huffed
and puffed up the steps, a tub of potatoes tucked under each arm. When Auntie
Dorothy arrived with her big brown bag, I hurried to her side.
“Can I help you get your celery ready?”
“Of course, and I’ve got another cheese glass for you, too.”
I gaped, spellbound, as she pulled the latest acquisition to my collection out
of the bag…a rare black tulip.
Today I open my kitchen cabinet and gaze at the miniature
tumblers that I’ve treasured for over half a century: tulips, forget-me-nots,
lilies of the valley, bachelor buttons, and my favorite, a light blue
cornflower with emerald leaves.
When I checked recently on e-Bay I was astonished to learn
that these days collectors call these humble glasses swanky swigs, and they’re highly regarded for their ornate decals. They
now sell for what Grandma would have called a pretty penny. Why, one set of
four blue tulips is listed for twenty bucks, and forget-me-nots go for at least
eight dollars each.
I pull down the black tulip and hold it up to the sunlight.
Not only can I recall the snap and crunch of Auntie Dorothy’s celery filled with
pineapple cheese, I remember how Mama poured half an inch of Teddy’s bubbly
into this very same tumbler, and I, feeling swanky indeed, had taken my first
swig of champagne.
For supper tonight maybe I’ll fry up some bacon and open a
can of beans, fill a few stalks of celery with roka blue. I’ll check the pantry
for champagne so I can toast to the entire family that provided such memorable
Thanksgiving dinners, including, especially, Auntie Dorothy.
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"Spellbound by Swanky Swigs" appears in
Thanksgiving Tales, edited by Brian Jaffe, and available on Amazon.com as a paperback and on Kindle.
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