Thanksgiving Can Be a Beautiful Pie

I am having but one guest for Thanksgiving this year. And my husband, well, he, too, is having but one guest. We are each other’s guest.

This may be a first. We are experienced at pulling the dining room table apart to insert a leaf, sometimes two, finding extra chairs in the basement for people we didn’t know were coming, having folks stand in the kitchen while I worry over lumps in the gravy. This morning we reflected on this while we drank our morning coffee and read the newspaper in bed, including the obits which were mysteriously brief in Wednesday’s special edition. I told him, “Everyone’s waiting for Sunday to make a bigger splash.”

The idea came to me in a flash. We weren’t having guests, so we had no guests to cater to. We could cater to ourselves. So, that’s what we are doing. There is a pecan pie in the oven instead of the usual pumpkin and apple. And a new carton of French vanilla ice cream. We are going to eat some tonight as a kick-off to tomorrow’s day long feast. We are not in the mood to save things for later.

There was a time when having a single guest for Thanksgiving would make me sad. But now is not that time. My people are in other places, literally and otherwise, and that is fine.

I spent many Thanksgivings away from my parents when I easily could’ve gotten in the car and driven a few hours to their home. I can’t remember the last Thanksgiving I had with them. I should. I always loved Thanksgiving growing up. I have no unhappy memories, no scars from Thanksgivings gone bad. I loved my mother’s midwestern cooking, her Wonder Bread stuffing, her giblet gravy, everything. My brother sometimes gave me headaches, but those faded quickly with a visit to the porch for some cold fresh air.

Still, there came a last Thanksgiving with my parents, but I don’t remember when it was. Memory is gentle that way, not annotated with dates and times. It’s all hazy but comfortable. There is my father playing the upright piano in the basement while pool cues click. When it was doesn’t matter.

We have a day planned tomorrow that involves a long walk in the woods with dogs, watching Green Bay Packers football, having our lovely Thanksgiving dinner, and watching some odd assortment of British mysteries. There will be blankets on the couch, as always, and two dogs laying at our feet. A cat will appear midway through the evening to walk carefully across my legs to a place to curl up. Once he does that, I am still for the duration. I am loathe to make the cat unhappy. I am loathe to make myself unhappy or my guest.

I smell the pecan pie baking. It must be nearly done.