Thanksgiving Toast: To my dad

As I scurry about in these waning days before a great family feast, I must pause and raise a glass.

The Thanksgiving of my childhood was filled with amazing food and copious amounts of relatives. My father was one of five kids, and as such, he insisted every year on inviting all of his extended family; my mother’s sister and her family; both sets of grandparents; and any nearby straggler to our moderately sized home for a feast that would rival a medieval king’s. Naturally.

My dad was the consummate host and thus would provide an elegant setting for his guests. Annually, he would borrow tables and folding chairs from the church’s men’s club and my siblings and I would line them up across the dining room and into the living room and up to the front door. It began with dad arriving in his truck, shouting for help; and usually ended in blisters. I remember carrying those enormous, cold metal chairs with a seven-year old’s grace across the cold, misty front yard and into the house. So began the hours-long set up.

Friends of my parents owned a linen service, and would loan us enough matching table cloths to make the enormous, rectangle folding tables set end to end look halfway decent. Inviting, even. My folks would splurge, renting plates and wine glasses and mom would put out the candlesticks.

As is typical of a wife of a consummate host, my mother made every side-dish imaginable; and upon the gentle insistence of her husband, would make his second-generation family’s favorites. It is hard to describe such food to families who prefer the boxed and canned flavors of today. You can’t really buy artichoke-heart and wine stew.

The feast took on the flavors of extended family as well. One aunt married an Italian, thus the introduction of ravioli’s at the feast. Another was fascinated by jello, and so arrived the lemon-jello-with-bananas-and-marshmallows “salad.” There were at least two types of rolls and more casseroles than you could shake a stick at (so don’t even try, because you’d just be shaking, shaking a stick all day long). And pie. Three kinds. And many of each kind. And of course someone always had to bring a cake of some sort. Because in this enormous family, SOMEone—maybe even three someones—was having a birthday.

And, of course, there was wine.

My father was a wine fanatic. I am sure there is a better phrase for it—amateur sommelier? Aficionado? Drunk? (JOKE!) I grew up in Sonoma County, where the harvest is a big deal and even our politicians were vintners. I grew up hearing my dad’s famous refrain: “If you want auto parts, go to Napa. If you want wine, go to Sonoma.”

He, of course, was right.

The two food items I miss most from the Thanksgiving of my childhood are my father’s stuffing, and his turkey. I have the recipe for his stuffing which—though truly fantastic and in every way the greatest stuffing known to humankind (fact)—somehow doesn’t taste as good as when my father made it. He created it and perfected it, and changed it up a bit every year.  I make the recipe he e-mailed me some ten years ago, which he humbly named, “Harry’s World Famous Turkey Stuffing.”

As for his turkey…From the first major event, when some 30 people joined us to the very last time he ever prepared the bird, my father huddled in the open garage or under a covered porch with the uncles and other menfolk (who would break away from football), over two to three (depending on crowd size) Weber barbeques (ALWAYS WEBER). Until I moved across the country and spent my first Thanksgiving away (at age 27-- *sob!*), I’d always had barbequed turkey. It is – along with dad’s stuffing—one of the greatest foods known to humankind.

Thanksgiving is a bittersweet holiday for me. Food, family, friends. As a child, I remember being surrounded by dozens of once-a-year relatives while suffering in a dress of some kind and tights (we always wore nice clothes for the occasion). As a teen, I remember being aloof and bored. And I remember dishes. Years and years, yards and miles of dishes.

But I also remember the great conversations and laughter; playing football in the street after dusk; hours of Dungeons and Dragons with my cousins; having deep political discussions with my deeply opinionated family; and the year I turned 21 and my brother in law making everyone—including my grandparents—do shots. I remember discussing the subject of boys with my girl cousins. Every year. For many, many years.

And I remember the year I finally got it—the year I came to understand and appreciate my parents great effort to have us all together.

With that, these years, I remember my dad. He passed away several years ago, but (as you likely can tell) Thanksgiving was HIS holiday. His turkey. His stuffing. His generosity and his magnificent ability (along with my mom’s) to host such a large crowd, year after year.

And so I head into a weekend of cooking and cleaning, of mediating family arguments, of football on the TV, of chasing pets, of caring for kids, of roasting and of toasting, I will raise  my glass first of all with a fine wine from Sonoma, to the man that embedded my Thanksgiving traditions: To my dad. I’m so grateful for the memories. Miss you, old man.