Giving Thanks

My mother was an excellent, from-scratch cook, able to single-handedly and seemingly effortlessly, put together a festive feast for a dozen or more people.

"Seemingly effortlessly" …of course upon reflection, I now realize the tremendous amount of work she put into her repasts, no matter how easy she seemed to make it look. There was never a cookbook in sight. Like a chef de cuisine, the menu and preparation was solely her responsibility. She measured by eye, adjusting seasonings after taking small tastes, or because she was less-than-satisfied with the touch, smell or look of whatever she was working on at the moment.

"Single-handedly" ...I had three brothers and three sisters, and although Mom would put them to task polishing, cleaning or setting the table, I was the only child who assisted her in the kitchen. It was as if I began as her chef de partie and worked my way up to sous chef status.

As young as three or four, I'd shown a keen interest in food preparation. While my siblings would be off playing or watching television, I'd be hanging out asking questions:

"Why are you only cutting some of the fruit?"

"The berries will cook faster. They don't need to be cut. This way all the fruit will be fully cooked at the same time."

"Why do I have to dry the spoon before I stir the melted chocolate?"

"Because even even the tiniest drop of water, or any liquid really, will cause the chocolate to seize."

It was by her side that I learned many a helpful hint that I use today:

- "After you separate the egg whites, let them sit at room temperature for an hour or so. They'll whip up much better that way."

- "Save the cooking water from those potatoes, you're draining. We'll use it to enhance the broth for the gravy we're making."

- "Remember, don't boil the eggs, you are hard-cooking them, not hard-boiling them. And those are super fresh, so add a bit of baking soda. They'll be easier to peel."

"Pillsbury ready-made"? Never! Mom even rendered her own lard for use in her light, deliciously flaky pie crusts. Cool Whip? Absolutely not! At the age of nine I was a whiz at whipping cream, pre-chilling the beaters and bowl in the freezer to assure the best outcome. At first I'd give Mom a spoonful and she'd let me know if more sugar or extract was needed, but soon enough I was entrusted to make those determinations myself.

And yeah, I get that some well-to-do urban folk can order up a full organic "homemade" feast from the likes of, oh I don't know, let's say Whole Foods, but I'm grateful for my self-reliance when it comes to food prep. Thanks, Mom!

Mostly I smile as I recall my childhood Thanksgivings. But, I retain one memory, try though I may to obliterate it, that haunts me...

Mom was a faithful Roman Catholic. And, though it might have stretched the ever-waning budget of a large family with a single income, she sent us to private Catholic schools.

Mom seemed to accept unquestioningly the tenets of faith as prescribed by the Church. As a child some of that escaped me. Our religion instructors would preach the importance of sharing with those less fortunate. And okay, I understood that. I mean, I willingly donated some of my allowance to UNICEF. My problem was my empathy stopped at my front door.

Each year my mother would find some down-on-his-luck individual and invite them to dine with us on thanksgiving day. Seated in a place of honor, would be a man, it was usually a man, a man who looked like he'd been around one too many of life's rough corners. He'd be wearing his Sunday best, which usually consisted of well worn, shiny-in-spots slacks and a tattered shirt, which was topped off with a wrinkled, threadbare sports coat, missing one or two buttons. Mom always treated these guests like they were the pope himself come to visit. "Would you care for some more, (Most Reverend) William?" she'd ask reverently, then direct one of us to bring some platter of food over to him and serve him. (She didn't really say "Most Reverend" but from her tone and inflection it was, to me, as if she had)  Yet, somehow it remained a stretch for me. I was pretty sure all the popes, in the pictures I'd seen, had all of their teeth intact.

And you'd think I'd grow accustomed to this benevolence of hers over the years, but instead it festered with me. By the time I was in my late teens and wanting to invite a boy over, it had become a point of embarrassment for me. And so one day, I broached the subject, "Mom, can we puh-lease have just one Thanksgiving where there aren't any needy homeless people at the table?"

With her hand in a fist and that fist pointed at her mouth, as she leaned forward at the kitchen table, her elbow taking the weight, her mouth covered so I couldn't see if it had formed any expression, she looked off in the distance. I didn't notice any difference in her eyes and her forehead remained un-furrowed. She stared fixedly for some time and I remember turning to look out of the window to see what the heck she was staring at. Finally she rose and headed to her bedroom, said, "I'm going to do some reading. Will you wake me at five o'clock, if I fall asleep?"

"She's probably going to pray a rosary for my soul," and "Oh, well nothing ventured, nothing gained," were among my flippant, self-absorbed teenaged musings.

She never spoke a word to me about it after that, but I remember well that there was never again a needy person at our house for Thanksgiving or any other time.

Some are thankful for all of the blessings and joys bestowed upon them and happily share that gratitude with loved ones and friends. Some willingly donate to the food pantry, or even go out and deliver food baskets directly to those in need. But, it takes a very special person to invite someone in need into your home and treat that someone like royalty.

Under Mom's tutelage I became pretty accomplished when it comes to planning and putting a large feast together. But, when it comes to true thankfulness, I'm neither fit to scrub her pots and pans nor shine her shoes.

"Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving." ~W. T. Purkiser