Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
~William Shakespeare
My second year in college had started. I hadn’t decided whether to fly home for Thanksgiving yet. Although I had missed the holiday the year before, and I didn’t want to miss it two years in a row, I didn’t have the money for the ticket, plus I wasn’t sure I could get enough time off from my job.
All that wondering changed when my mom called. She got right to the point: “Your grandmother isn’t doing well. Your dad and I decided I should fly out there for Thanksgiving.” Mom was an only child, so that made sense to me. But I was not ready for what I heard next. “We decided you would want to come along so I covered your ticket.”
My mom was a whiz at logistics. “I will fly from Alabama, and you can fly from Minnesota. We will meet in Northern California the afternoon before Thanksgiving. Your dad and the younger kids will stay home for Thanksgiving at our house. I will have all the holiday preparations done so they can just pop the turkey in the oven on Thanksgiving morning.”
As always, Mom’s plan went off without a hitch. I met her at the Oakland airport, and we took a taxi to our hotel.
When we got in the door, Mom promptly called my grandpa. “Would you like us to come over and get the holiday meal ready for tomorrow, Dad?” She was disappointed when she hung up the phone. “Your grandfather doesn’t drive at night anymore, and your grandmother is already resting for the night. He will pick us up sometime tomorrow morning.”
Mom was anxious to see her parents, especially her mother, who was really fragile. But Grandpa didn’t show up until well after nine in the morning.
When we finally got to their house, we got to say hello and then Grandpa helped Grandma lie down again and banished us to the living room, telling us we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at noon. He went into the kitchen.
Mom paced the floor. Finally, I asked her what the matter was. She didn’t appreciate the question. “He can’t cook,” she hissed. “How’s he supposed to fix a Thanksgiving meal for us?”
I tried to reason with her. “Can’t you smell dinner? It smells divine to me. Grandma is upstairs resting. Grandpa is the only one who could be cooking.” But we couldn’t see through the kitchen door.
She had an idea. “Let’s sneak out the front door and see what’s going on. Then we will know who is really cooking.” Grandpa was very hard of hearing, so he didn’t hear us leave. It was a crazy plan, but I followed her around the house to the kitchen windows. There we watched Grandpa fill water glasses and make coffee, undetected. “When did he learn to make coffee?” Mom asked out loud. We ran back around the side of the house and into the living room.
We should not have done that because it made Mom worse. “I tell you, he can’t cook.” She continued to pace in the tiny living room. Finally, Grandpa came through the kitchen door. It was almost noon by then.
Speaking directly to my mom, he said, “I am going to get your mother up and bring her down to eat with us. You two — go sit down at the dining room table. Stay out of the kitchen!” So we did.
When Grandma got situated at the table, Grandpa sat down and said grace. Then he got up and started making trips back and forth through the kitchen door: first he brought the water, then the coffee, then a couple of relish trays, rolls and individual lettuce salads he had poured out of one of those premixed plastic bags. You get the idea. It took forever because he moved slowly, and he only brought out a couple of things at a time.
Then we heard the oven door squeak open. Mom’s eyes got big. She stopped answering Grandma’s questions because she was listening so hard. The kitchen door opened again, and Grandpa came through with a potholder in each hand. He served Grandma first, with a flourish, and then Mom. The smell of the food was so good I didn’t think I could wait any longer. Grandpa came through the door one last time and set hot food in front of me, and then himself. The food was still too hot to eat, so we sat in silence.
Finally, Mom spoke. “Wow, I can’t believe it, this smells so good.” I started shoveling food into my mouth, careful not to make eye contact with Mom. If I had, surely I would have choked to death from laughter. But I could tell by Grandma’s eyes that she had been in on planning this Thanksgiving dinner.
You see, Grandpa had truly made the Thanksgiving dinner all by himself. He had heated and served each of us one of those TV turkey dinners on little metal trays. You know the kind: a little mound of stuffing with a slab or two of pressed turkey on top, a blob of whipped potatoes with not enough margarine and a pile of really bright green peas, but no dessert. It tasted as good as it smelled, and I really don’t even like peas.
I guess it shows that it’s who’s around the table, not what’s on it, that makes the food taste so good.
~Pamela Gilsenan
