Thanksgiving presents itself in a simple gathering of food and family. It requires no tree in the living room, no retrieval of dusty ornament boxes, no cards, no gifts that usually miss their mark. It is all good eating and camaraderie.
However it is imperative to state that all of us with standing homes, while awaiting the coming of blessed rain, hopefully soon, are thankful that this year the fires didn’t attack our woods. And, to those without homes, family and friends lost, animals missing, hills and towns burnt, we all hope that help is continual and send thanks to the unselfish and brave folks bringing some semblance of order and caring to your lives.
Last night while planning this column, over 70 years of Thanksgivings — aunts, parents, siblings, nieces and nephews — kept drifting in for turkey and stuffing. This has to be a column, not a book, so here are just two favorite memories.
My sister-in-law, Nancy, and I were recalling the dishes we washed in our family home in Larkspur following Thanksgiving dinner, which occurred around four or five in the afternoon. Always these autumnal guests were my dad’s side of the family, who resided in Berkeley, Oakland and San Francisco.
Uncle Dick, (really my grand-uncle) loved good food and was my idea of the real Santa. He was jolly, kind and round. His wife, Auntie Madge, was the exact opposite — small and quiet. They, like my gramma and father, had lived their early lives in Virginia City, Nevada, and had immigrated together as a family to San Francisco.
Mom would have us set the table with all the fragile glassware and dishes that we only saw in the dining room hutch most of the time. She would prepare everything but the turkey. Dad’s sole day in the kitchen was Thanksgiving morning, dicing onions and celery, working the sage shaker while reminding us, “You can’t have too much sage in the dressing!” then stuffing and tying the bird to place in the oven. The rest was up to Mom.
The table looked lovely with matching bowls and lots of little plates. My favorite was the small plate that would hold one of the butterfly yeast rolls that my grandmother would have purchased from Stemple’s Bakery in San Francisco.
After dinner Nancy and I would take over getting the kitchen back in order, a task that took over an hour to conclude. About that time, however, Uncle Dick would also be poised to conclude that he and the others now had room for another bit of turkey dinner before their trip across the bay. So, out would come the bird, the dressing, the cranberry sauce, the dinner rolls and, of course, “just a small piece” of pie.
“Whipping cream, Uncle Dick?”
“Why sure!”
Decades later, another favorite story involves Carol Adams, beloved Healdsburg High School counselor and vice principal from the ‘80s, Carol Adams. As 4-H cooking leader, my class prepared a Thanksgiving dinner each year for their families and it was held at our farm the Monday before the holiday. Joel and I moved most of the furniture out of the living room making space for additional tables to seat forty. The 4-Hers had prepared yeast rolls, pumpkin pie, chocolate frozen pie and cranberry relish. I was in charge of the turkey. Carol had come over to help, as daughter Michele was part of the cooking class. It was time to get the bird out of the oven.
“Are you ready?” inquired Carol.
She was at one side of the greasy broiler pan, potholders securely grasped, while I was at the other side.
“Ready!” I answered.
We counted — one, two, three — and then grabbed the edges of the pan and moved it off the oven rack. Stunned by the weight of the pan, we immediately dropped the turkey onto the floor. We were filled with gratitude that the guests hadn’t arrived yet.
I smile in memory of her and all the dear people who occupy those times gone by. As we recall them, they come alive again and younger generations can learn how they all fit in their own history. It requires curiosity, listening and memory on the part of everyone gathered around the family table tomorrow.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
