Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. I enjoy contemplating the many blessings God granted me. I embrace the warmth that our pellet stove gives out. The soft glow of the flames dances behind the glass door covered in soot. I stand on the side of the rock cliffs and look down at the green valleys as the fall wind blows through my hair. Watching the bluish-green river snake through the canyon walls, walking into a food market, and seeing ripe and plump vegetables recently harvested in our valley. My eyes roam over the appealing colors of the various peppers as the heavy squash are situated in their wooden crates. Thanksgiving is a time to celebrate the many marvels and miracles we all enjoy. 

Childhood Memories

Thanksgiving was only a short break from school. We occasionally got a half day on Wednesday, then celebrated the Thursday holiday. Friday consisted of leftovers, movies, and feeding cows. Then, it was back to school on Monday. 

In my distant memory, my Grandma Orme wore a gold and brown polyester paisley patterned shirt. It flows over her aging figure. I walked through her front door and she encompassed me in her billowy arms. She didn’t let go until her love enveloped me. She whispers, “I love you! Happy Thanksgiving” in my right ear. She still hangs on to me as she pulls me back to look at my face. She smiles, and a gold-lined tooth captures the light from above and sends me a little sparkle. She is an angel walking around in earthy, monotone colors, and I can tell she wants everyone to be content and comfortable. Earlier that morning, she partially froze Sprite and orange soda pop in bread pans and put them in her freezer. As I pick up the cold drink, I struggle to filter out the ice and the liquid into my mouth. Plump shrimp, small diced celery, and a zesty tomato sauce sit in little cups on top of a crisp white linen table with green onions in a beautiful dish in the center. We get to eat from glass cups handed down from generation to generation. Now that the slushy pop and the cocktail dishes sit perfectly on the table, it is almost time to eat! After dinner, date pudding fills the dessert dishes with golden caramel sauce. I am so grateful for a Grandma who understands how to love me completely. She always makes me feel extra special.

Next, the memories of my Grandma Mickelsens’ Thanksgiving dinners are a little hazy, but here are a few unforgettable memories. Grandma stands in blue leather low-heels at her beige and black stove. I often wonder why Grandma never wore tennis shoes. I always thought her feet must be sore from wearing her Sunday shoes everywhere. She wore her low-heeled shoes to mow the lawn, walk out to the shop to check on Grandpa, feed the truckers who hauled our cattle, and clean her toilets. She stands at the stove in her blue polyester pants with a permanent iron line creased down the center. Her button-up blue blouse is snug around her waist, and the hem rests tightly around her lower midriff.

The black circular hot plates are weighed down with heavy pots and pans. Potatoes, gravy, meat, and pies are Grandma’s specialties. The grated carrot and raisin salad sits snugly in her fridge beside the pickled beets. The sliced dill pickles are next to the beets in a green Tupperware pickle storage container. A sizable ceramic pineapple sits close to a glass bottle filled with jelly beans on top of her fridge. The jar has a silicone gasket and a metal lock that clamps down. Ten minutes before the meal is ready to be served, Grandma stands near the front hot plate, whisking the flour into her gravy with perfect finesse. We are entirely stuffed with Grandma’s delicious food! We are excused from the table and I chase after my cousins to the top of the stairs. We grab onto the metal railing, and we slide down the stairs on our bums. One at a time, bump, bump, bump! Grandma calls over the iron railing, “You guys, be good down there, and don’t get into anything!” Grandpa retires to his rocker with a tall white and gold can of cold Olympia beer that he sits on the table lamp. We all dismissed the instructions and ran full blast into the large room in the basement. We create plays, dance moves, and jingles to perform to our parents. My cousin slings Grandma’s round pillows with a large button sewn in the middle off of the long blue couch. We are now in a complete war of pillow dodgeball. The white tiles on the basement floor make it easy to run and slide as round, colorful pillows are flying overhead with full force. Chaos engulfs the lower half of Grandma’s house for several hours. Meanwhile,  our parents sit on the 70’s style burnt-orange couches in the living room and talk about the weather, the price of cattle, and our families. I am so grateful for my family because they are my best friends.   

Praiseworthy Pumpkin Pie  

Fast forward a few more years, and I am preparing the desserts for Thanksgiving dinner at my mom’s home in just a few hours. I combine the fat and the flour, and I push the fork in the flour until I have a thousand little pea-sized pieces in my mixing bowl. The ice-cold water sits on the counter, ready to pour into the little holes I have indented in the mixture. I carefully pull the pie dough together into a ball. I wrap it snugly and set it in the fridge for 15 minutes. The Pumpkin pie filling is ready to go into the pie shell, and the chocolate and banana creams are cooling in the pans on the stove. I take the round balls of dough wrapped tightly in saran wrap and set them on a dusted counter. I make an x with my rolling pin in the first round and roll it out as I turn the dough clockwise. I fold the pastry over my rolling pin and carefully lay it across my pie plate. Today, I am not just baking pies. I am filling them with nostalgic spices, memories from Thanksgiving’s past, a bright hope for my children’s future, and mounds of love for the people in my life.

I opened my hot oven and placed the fall-colored pumpkin pie into the oven. I feel indebted to those who came before me as I clean the flour from the countertop. The smell from the pumpkin, pastry, and spices permeates the air. It reminds me of my children running through the low-hanging branches of our apple trees, their big smiles as they jump into a pile of crisp leaves, and the heartfelt gratitude that gets spoken of before every Thanksgiving dinner. At last, the pies are complete, and the kitchen is spotless. I sit all three pies on my tiled countertop by the back door, and I stand and admire them for a moment. Underneath the cabinets is a soft light that shines on the pumpkin pie, and it illuminates the glossy texture and the little dots of spices scattered throughout the pumpkin filling.   

The green numbers on the back of the white stove glow brightly, ‘3:00’ against the black background. I called out to Sidnee and Addy and grabbed my baby from his crib. “It’s time to go to Grandma’s! Everyone grab your coats and get your shoes on.” I get Britton buckled into his car seat, and the girls jump into the back seat of our Chevy Tahoe. I open the back hatch to the back of the Tahoe and place the pies unwrapped gently down on the carpeted area. I also have other items I am taking, so I put them next to the three pies. I look at Addy and Sidnee, “Girls, please watch these pies.” they excitedly respond, “Oooh, Yum! Okay, mom.”

Alan backs out of our driveway, and the girls give us a thumbs-up from the back seat. We only have three miles to drive. The pies are going to make it just fine. We pull out onto 113 North and drive the short distance to the stop sign. Addy extends her body slightly over the back seat to get a better look at the pies. At the same time, Alan brakes too hard at the stop sign. I hear from the back of the car, “Oh, no!” I turn around, and Addy’s legs are up in the air. The momentum of the brakes ejected her right hand into the pumpkin pie and her left hand into the chocolate pie. Sidnee covers her eyes and says, “Addy!” Addy looks horrified as we stop the car and open the back door. She regretfully says, “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to fall! Dad braked, and I fell over.”

I look at the two hand prints and the mess over the beige carpet. I want to become furious about the situation. All the love, the time, and the precision I put into making the pies are all ruined. Alan jumps out of the driver’s seat and looks at the situation. He puts his arm around me and says, “Dari, it’ll be okay. The chocolate pie is fixable, and maybe a quarter of the pumpkin pie is still edible.” I clamp my mouth shut and close my eyes for a moment. I respond in a cold, even tone, “You’re right, it’s okay. Let’s get to Mom’s and clean Addy up.” I return to the front seat, slam the door, and put my head against the passenger window. I ask myself, How in the world did she fall into those pies? Was she reaching for something? Why did Alan brake so hard? Uggg! I am losing all control right now and going off the deep end. My nostalgic thoughts earlier of love, gratitude, and ancestors went down the drain.

We pull into my mom’s driveway, and mom walks out the door with her arms extended outward. Sidnee runs into Mom’s arms for a warm embrace, and Addy saunters up the steps and says, “I need to hurry and wash up.” Mom looks at Addy’s combination of fall flavors all over her, and then she looks at me. “What happened?” A wide smile appears as she tries to hold back the laughter. I explain, and Mom goes to inspect the pies. She says, “They are fine. Let’s eat! You’ve made a memory! At this moment I am grateful for the patience, positive people, and my little humans. 

Personal culmination of thoughts 

Dried-out turkeys, snowstorms, and unmet expectations can be some of the downfalls of Turkey Day. So here are a few suggestions: 

1. Lower your standards. If you have an unrealistic, hyped-up, dreamy Thanksgiving day imagined somewhere in the corners of your mind, you might be disappointed. An eccentric Southern Baptist woman told me a few years ago, “If you have no standards for birthdays or holidays, everything will end up being magical.!” She suggested gathering my children around me and singing songs. Then, clap out the rhythm to those same tunes. Finally, change it up by moving chords and melodies around. She continued to tell me that making something out of nothing is entertaining and memorable.   
2. Laugh at your mistakes. I look back at the memory of Addy falling into those pies, and it is hilarious! The holidays can be too stressful. So what if you’re chewing on turkey jerky for a week? Laugh it off and enjoy the moments with those around you. 
3. Share your blessings with others. Invite people who are alone during the holidays to your table (and on non-holidays too). We can all give a little more, be kinder, and love deeper. 

Happy Thanksgiving!