After my cousins and uncle and mother and grandfather left tonight, I realized that the last time that part of my family had a nice, home-cooked meal together was probably well over ten years ago. When my cousins arrived and Scott offered them a drink – wine: merlot, reisling, chardonnay; soda: diet coke, 7up; water, juice, a cocktail perhaps?- he said they looked a little surprised at first. That kind of hospitality is strikingly out of context.
I was a little surprised, too. For one thing, hosting Thanksgiving is supposed to be this big deal, and I don’t know if it’s just that Scott is food compulsive and I am pathologically organized, but it was a breeze. Everything was prepped and dessert was made yesterday, my mom brought stuffing, and the only thing we had to do today was enjoy a morning yoga class, throw stuff in the oven, and get together the green bean casserole and the mashed potatoes right before meal time. For another thing, my cousins and uncle were eager to try tofurky, and they liked it! (And why not? Prepared properly, it’s delicious.) I think they were also a bit surprised that a vegan Thanksgiving is not all sprouts and kale. I love sprouts and kale, but our Thanksgiving is traditional, and my uncle enjoyed the meal so much that, according to Scott, he snorted a few times while he was eating.
My mom was surprised that my grandfather mostly behaved. We were both surprised that my cousins are grown up people. (“I had a baby when I was her age,” my mom said.) No one was surprised that my grandfather made a big production of handing out envelopes and talked about nothing but money and exotic animals. (He imported exotic animals as part of his furniture and linoleum business, of course. Then he sold them to labs. Apparently a life of veganism is my karma, big time. Jewish karma, that is, from one generation to the next instead of one lifetime to the next. Charma? Karmish? Karmeh?)
But most surprising of all was that this transpired in my house. I’ve never been the heart of the family type. From the time we left Baltimore when I was eight years old, family was a seasonal obligation characterized by driving up and down 95 and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. I didn’t talk to anyone in my family except for my parents for two years in my twenties, I barely know my cousins, and I am usually completely exhausted by any kind of family gathering. But, it had been years since we had a viable, undepressing Thanksgiving, and here I was back in Baltimore with this house and a wicked pumpkin pie recipe. And even though I don’t really know these people, which is a little awkward after thirty-three years, it just seemed like the right thing to do.
So, this is home? This is family? It’s a new frontier for me, but after all this time out in the woods, I got everyone back around the table. For that I am thankful.
