My Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day began with a morning cleanup of the house that extended well into the afternoon. The beneficial effect of guests takes hold well before their arrival, as the powerful host-reflex snaps us out of our laissez faire policies towards dust and debris and transforms us into cleaning machines. Once the necessary implements and liquids were located, that free-loader Entropy was sent packing, out the door and well beyond the boundaries of the driveway, to hang out among the fallen storm debris in the backyard until our diminished state of vigilance in coming days allows it back in.

I experience the host reflex as such a powerful motivator that it is tempting to promote its use for wider applications, such as improving the efficiency of government agencies that might otherwise tend to lose vigor with time. They should throw dinner parties in remote departments of obscure agencies and invite the people in for hors d'oeuvrs and a look around.

As the home interior began to shine, the air became suffused with a marvelous aroma of my daughter's home-baked pies. Still, I was so caught up in the satisfying momentum of restoring order that I could not lure myself into starting the turkey. Truth be told, I have long been intimidated by the prospect of cooking the great bird. The youngest of a largish family, I had traditionally positioned myself during holidays somewhere distant from dinner preparations, immersing myself in arguably constructive activities, perhaps composing at the piano or chopping wood, while others did what they have always done so well in the kitchen.

The downside of this highly successful evasion confronts me now every holiday, as I stand before a 14 pounder with a feeling of dread, helpless to escape. (The turkey, of course, must have felt something similar and all the more keenly just a few days prior.) If the bird, through some form of luck, emerges from the oven in edible or even highly edible condition, there is still the gravy to make--a task I had decided must be exceeding complex. I would read the many contradictory descriptions in various cookbooks, and feel all the more lost.

Over the past couple years, however, it has dawned on me that this sense of intimidation is unwarranted. Last year I cracked the gravy conundrum, realizing that it's basically just a matter of heating some fat, mixing in some flour, and then adding stock to get the right consistency, essentially how I've been making creamed chicken for decades.

The bird this year, however, still looked worrisomely pale and vulnerable to mishap. Should we cook the stuffing in the bird or separately? Why hadn't I taken it out of the frig sooner to warm to room temperature? And would the guests, their arrival surprisingly imminent, still be awake when it's done? I reread the reassuringly brief passages in cookbooks by Bittman and Alice Waters, decided to half stuff the turkey, rub it with butter, cover it with foil for the first hour or two, and hope for the best. Rather than wait for the button on top to pop up, I managed to find a meat thermometer and follow directions. Meanwhile, a collective effort, lubricated by wine, was underway by others to prepare all the bird's accompaniments.

It was at this point that I remembered a third component--beyond bird and gravy--that once again had been overlooked. It would have been easy to take our knives to the local hardware store for sharpening, but in family tradition this is a home-grown art, maintained in mind but, unfortunately for this occasion, not in act. Carving the bird, in my family growing up, was an honor given to a different family member each year, and done at the head of the dinner table with all assembled, the better to admire the skill of the carver. Special knives, ornate and well-honed, were brought out for the purpose. This year, with childhood long gone and the bird miraculously done, I cut the meat in seclusion, with a knife so dull I might as well have used my fingernails to claw off chunks of flesh.

Despite all of this, the food we gathered at the table to eat proved better than any of us could remember. I could use less of the fretting and uncertainty, but for the time being they seem to be necessary ingredients, like herbs and a bit of salt, that heighten the flavor and make me, with family, friends and good food harmoniously converged, supremely thankful.