We all tend to work out of the comfort of the familiar. There are few times this is more apparent then at holidays. For me, this means working out of the ultimate model of Thanksgiving dining perfection; the incredible feasts my mother pulled off. For her, the food was important and very well done, but equally important was the presentation. Weeks before she'd pull out her finest family heirloom table linens and the silver set. She'd spend hours ironing out all the creases and polishing each fork, knife and spoon. By Thanksgiving morning the table glistened as the bone china was put into place, just so, below the full lead crystal water and wine glasses. The centerpiece was given to me as a Thanksgiving morning project when I was old enough to do a proper job. Over the years, it became my favorite part of Thanksgiving. I'd set out in the yard, scouting out the nicest green cuttings and a few interestingly shaped twigs. Once home with an armful, I'd trim each piece and arrange them dramatically underneath and between oranges, apples, plums and pomegranates. The last touch was to light the candles, put the stunning roasted bird on the table with all the lovely side dishes and take a picture to preserve the perfection that would be gone forever once the feast began. There was something incredibly satisfying about being a part of creating something so absolutely perfect - even if it only lasted for a moment or two.
Not being able to recreate this scene in my own home has seemed a failing to me over the years. Year after year I secretly dread its coming as I anticipate my inability to recreate the gold standard of holiday dining. I wasn't going to do a turkey at all this year - having an oyster roast instead sounded spectacular. But the shocking price of oysters shot down that option. So the bird's in the fridge, thawing. I took out the recipes this morning. I like to brine my turkey, a tradition that I can own. Another annual tradition has been to share the day with good friends who help with the cooking and the clean up. Together, we'll feed 13 tomorrow. I'll use the sideboard for a buffet (no turkey on the table) and we won't all fit at the dining room table, but maybe we can at least be in the same room. I'll pull out the fine linens my mother passed down to me and open the silver chest. But it would take a miracle to press it and clean the silver setting at this point. The next 36 hours will be organized pandemonium, but every bit as much a blessing as I share the kitchen with my daughter who loves to help make it all come together. It will form another memory for all the kids of our two families, hopefully, not one with which they feel they will need to compete.
In having a shared Thanksgiving meal these last few years, I've had to really relax my expectations and loosen the reins a bit. (The first year I was horrified when the turkey was carved BEFORE it hit the table, OMG!) Its a spiritual lesson I cannot practice enough. I'm a bit overwhelmed sitting here thinking of what needs to be done between now and then. But it will get done, or it won't, and the meal will happen regardless. There won't be a picture perfect moment when the table itself has reached that glorious moment of perfection. But there will be that precious (almost perfect) moment when we are all gathered around the table holding hands and giving thanks for the food that was so loving prepared by so many hands, for the friendship between us and our joy of being together, and for the love of Christ that unites us.
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