“Do you think 28 pounds of turkey is enough?” asked my wife, as we stood by a freezer case in Trader Joe’s.
She had just muscled two Kosher birds, one 15 pound, one 13, into the cart, waving away my offer to do the lifting, the “as if I haven’t been flinging these things around a kitchen myself for years” being unvoiced.
“Well,” I ventured. “Twenty five guests, about a pound per person should ... ”
“A lot of it is bone,” she interjected. Not to inform me, I hope. I don’t think she really feared I’m so culinarily clueless as to imagine whole turkeys are solid chunks of meat — I do sometimes carve them, though invariably am body-checked away by a relative capable of more finesse with a blade.
Last year we had three turkeys — one roasted, one deep-fried, one smoked. That was deemed “too much turkey,” though not by me. I want to spend the next few days assembling plates of cold leftovers, turkey and stuffing, and eating them standing in the kitchen, and assume every guest does too.
“You are making five pounds of salmon,” I observed. For the pescatarians — those who shun meat, but whose moral code nevertheless allows them to eat fish: sentient creatures, innocently plying the waters, nuzzling their young with human-like affection, at one with nature and the divine until a cruel hook yanks them into the suffocating air.
Sorry, shouldn’t tease. Frankly, lately, I take comfort in the realization that a person can be a pescatarian, can so overflow with goodwill that limiting their concern to human beings just isn’t enough, so cattle and chickens and pigs must be welcomed into the realm of sympathy.
Comfort, and some amazement. We live in a time when caring about the suffering of others is an invitation to suffer yourself. In a world gone nuts, the temptation is to tune it out, or laser focus your worry on people exactly like yourself.
My wife worries about every aspect of Thanksgiving, from invitations to clean up. Me, I worry about the giving thanks part — before eating, we go around the table and each give thanks. Not that we don’t have a superabundance to be grateful for. Three upcoming weddings. Our two boys, plus cousin Beth and Joe — an Iowa wedding I’m eagerly anticipating. I understand that it’ll be at some regular wedding venue, but keep imagining “Dinner for Threshers,” Grant Wood’s panoramic portrait of farmers enjoying their bounty.
So we’ll go around, giving thanks, or trying to. Though it might fall flat, between the bloodshed in Gaza and antisemitism at home. “The green bean casserole was extra scrumptious this year,” might ring hollow.
The key, I think, is to snake your hand into the general mess and yank out good parts to hold up for appreciation. I plan on saying I am thankful that people still care. That my wife cares enough to prepare this enormous feast, with what blundering, ham-handed help I can provide. Grateful that these lovely young couples around us care enough for each other to commit their lives to being together. And that, in a world of horrors, we still care enough to worry about it, and agonize over what if anything we can do to help.
Whoever is reading this, whether in a mansion in Lake Forest or at the Pacific Garden Mission, please accept holiday greetings from my table to yours. I hope you have plenty of food, shelter over your head plus reason for hope and a plan. Whoever you are, if you are a Venezuelan immigrant sleeping in the lobby of a police station, sounding out words in an unfamiliar language, I hope the year brings you a job and a home and your paperwork in order. To all those grieving recent world events, to anybody in distress, discomfort, fear, anxiety, here’s hope for the strength to get through today. One day at a time. Try to take comfort in the knowledge that people you’ve never met really do care.
If you are having a grim Thanksgiving, maybe the worst holiday ever, remember, you are not alone, and there will be better Thanksgivings to come. I promise. Being at the lowest point in your life also means, by definition, things will improve from here on out.
I appreciate your attention, am grateful that you’re here, reading, thankful to spend this time together with you, and wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.
