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| Autumn seems slow in coming this year. Outside my window along the shallow silver creek, the cypresses cling stubbornly to their green. Nights dip into blanket weather, but the days climb inscrutably into the 80s, defying the tumbling of the months as we near the end of the year.
Still, the days are beautiful, softer in their approach, more mellow. The light slants through the leaves at a different angle, and if the leaves are not golden, the light is. I love this time of year, this time of life. I love the traditions that seem to gather speed as we close down the seasons. There is in me a yearning for warmth that goes beyond the temperature readings. It is a warmth achieved by the gathering of friends and family, by the need to be together. I see it in my children. The youngest tells me he loves waking Thanksgiving morning to the smell of turkey, to the laughter of people in the house. He loves gathering the fall leaves that decorate our table. The oldest has even agreed to come home from school for a day or two to see us. That speaks of a need he won’t voice. |
We need to gather around the table, around the big bird, the abundance of food that borders on surplus because everyone must bring their favorite dish. It does no good to say—but we already have green beans, do we really need brussel sprouts? Because the answer is always—yes, that’s what my mother always served. We need brussel sprouts.
Thanksgiving food is about hunger, but more a hunger for each other and the traditions that define us than any physical want. In that act of defining, we break small barriers, add small touches that our mothers never taught us. So bring on the brussel sprouts, the sweet potatoes and the great golden turkey. Immerse yourself in the pastry dough, the pumpkin puree, the bright ruby beads of cranberry. Then reach for the hands of the people nearest you. Pull them nearer. Remember how unbelievably lucky you are. Give thanks. |
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