Bay leaf, for rememberence...

this is about mothers on Thanksgiving

When I was a little girl, my mother worked as a waitress. she often worked two shifts a day, opting for double wages and bigger tips on holidays. I am reminded of her this Thanksgiving, how on a morning like this, she would be putting on her uniform, her hair piled high and held up against gravity, a red headed meringue sculpted by hairspray. She did not wear make up, but for work it was mandatory. A little eye shadow. a touch of lipstick.

On this day she would have woken up early to dress the bird. We could smell the onion and the celery

and bay leaf simmering in the water where the turkey neck and gizzard and livers boiled. We vied for the liver - my brother and I edging closer as she cut them up with a giant knife. Little kittens that we were, we always got a little taste. Now she probably would have set the bird in the oven, a giant thing, one that would cook what thirty minutes per pound - and instructed us simply turn on the potatoes she had already peeled, or put the frozen things out to thaw, or small chores that we learned the hard way meant having or not having a particular treat in time for dinner. Mother took the lunch shift and - see her, there she goes - her satin apron in her hand. That goes on at the last minute. Aprons, the final humiliation.

My mothers arms were strong, larger than most mothers I met through my friends. She had lifted those trays all her life, and she could weild them above the heads of unaware seated customers like a circus acrobat carrying a couple anteaters. Did you know ant eaters carry their wives and their wives carry their children? its like a three layer cake. That was mother, carrying my brother and I through fatherless months, making sure we had not only normalcy, but the extraordinary as well. By the time she came home, counted her tips, took off her clothes and put on her capris, the turkey would be ready to turn up and brown, and she would start making mashed potatoes. No, I’ll do it myself. They were always perfect, so who were we to argue? Then, this was the deft moment, she took some of that greasy juice from the bottom of the roasting pan and made gravy. Not chicken gravy, not flour and milk, but just a touch of corn starch, thickening the juice just a touch. Oh it was so good. Also she would set aside some plain juice for the purists. On Thanksgiving we had many choices of many foods. No one really ate the yams but .. a couple green beens just to be polite. And it was what my long ago Jewish boyfriend called 'white on white on white’ potatoes, gravy, white meat..and .. maybe a nice soft white roll. I still don’t really like pumpkin pie, but as ever, I take a slice for mothers sake. In those days Mom bought a bottle of whipped creme, made that sweet squash tolerable, though eventually she succumbed to cool whip.

My brother and I never felt alone on Thanksgiving, Dad was somehow … a distant rumor, something we were glad to have but not have to deal with. Between the comfort of the smells in the kitchen and us having our little tasks to complete, the time went by quickly from our end. I lingered in PJ’s longer than usual, but made sure I was all dressed when mom came home. Some thing pretty for her. We set the table and looked for real napkins, they must be here somewhere. Between the movies we scarfed up a bowl of cheerios. Certainly, there were not as many movies back then, only a few channels, and certainly they never aired movies with violence on holidays for family entertainment. It was maybe… W.C. Fields or….A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

We ate our dinner between two and four, and always ate a second dinner before the end of the night. Danny was capable of enormous feats of gluttony, food piled high on one single plate …. yet clear borders between the liquids and the solids. A great negotiator he would have been for world peace. You can have it all, just keep ‘em separated. He and mother watched sports on tv and I would go to my room and sing along with my favorite records.

I wish you all a good day, whether or not you eat anything at all. I hope you remember a fond memory and carry it with you. Old men used to have a little pocket for their watch to be kept safe…easy access to supply the time to passing strangers. Keep your memory there. You can bring it out, as I have, in case it seems like someone might enjoy to know the times you keep near your heart.