It is the day before Thanksgiving and most of those who are coming are here. The youngest and the eldest are in from the southern climes, one had a violent episode with a gastrointestinal hiccup and the other is in bed having come from the urgent care facility with bronchitis. The children, six and three are playing in four inches of snow without boots, hats, or gloves. Their father is chaperoning this endeavor in borrowed but still unsuitable attire. I have made four breakfasts and I've lost count of the lunches thus far. The dog is lying in an exhausted heap on the kitchen floor, un-used to such a level of attention and fun, not to mention noise and wicked good opportunities for dropped food. She is happy. I woke the Captain up at 2:00am to inform him that I forgot to buy cranberry sauce yesterday so he is charged with that, plus the epic drive of more than an hour each way to the airport to pick up more southerners. Snow is coming down at about an inch per hour. Perfect. Son and wife making it in from warmer latitudes.
It's quiet, I made pastry for the pies and am about to peel 30 lbs of potatoes while there is a lull in the cafeteria traffic that has become my kitchen. Lots of crafting going on today, a beautiful paper leaf wreath made by my grand daughter with guidance from her teacher auntie. Marker stains all over the island and dollops of glue to hold them in place. I have conveniently forgotten what this was like when there were five of them at home. The Captain invariably away on a trip and hopefully returning to us just in time for dinner. I used to do all this prepping and cooking while holding down a job outside the home too. I must have been mad.
Why do we do this? Perform these massive rites of feasting and forced family fun. Because we love each other that's why. Because when your sister walks in the door and you hug her and laugh and make a joke that only the two of you understand you are imprinting. You are telling one another and reminding yourself that you belong. This is your clan, these are your people. It is worth every grueling drive through hazardous conditions, every delay at an airport, every forgotten vital piece of make up, electronic equipment or shoes just to get here, where you belong. You belong to us and we to you, and you to each other. We stamp approval and acceptance all over one another as we hug, kiss and remember. Every bite is gravied with the support that only comes from knowing you have a place.
I served a dinner to poor families this year in an effort to give thanks and appreciation for all that I have. I was met with gratitude and happiness. I was thanked and it was obvious that all those attending, whether as volunteer cooks and servers or diners were meant to be somewhere else. They did not belong, they had no connection so visceral as our family and yours at Thanksgiving. It was humbling in its ability to ground me in the reality that not everyone is as fortunate as I. Not everyone is out worrying about the perfect sides to go with the picturesque bird. Many in our community suffer the outsider label, they don't belong. It's worth thinking about them and what you can do to help and how you may only be a step, a job loss, a diagnosis away from the same fate.
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