I've already written a little about my mom, who is a spectacular woman. She was raised–by American parents, from Wichita, Kansas–in Punta Arenas, Chile. That's her as a child, below, with two teeny kittehs she found. Hard to tell who's more adorbs.
At any rate, my mom. She speaks both English and Spanish fluently, is an incredible cook and always had dinner on the table after putting in a full day at the office (she and my dad are both academics and have worked at universities my whole life.) And she loves flavor. Deep spicy, rich dishes that set your tongue, and very often your soul, on fire. I assume it comes from growing up where she did, though I can say that having grown up on the border of Mexico, where they live probably has a lot to do with it, too.
So what does this have to do with Thanksgiving? Well, in a nutshell, here it is: I've never had a traditional American thanksgiving meal that I haven't made with my own two hands. As I said, my mom is an incredible cook. But she doesn't exactly do things by the Midwestern Housewives Handbook. We never had a pumpkin pie, or green bean casserole or those sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top. Not once. Our holiday dinner often consisted of things like tamales, enchiladas, poblano-spiced potatoes, game hens, venison, quail—you know, staples of South Texas cuisine. It was pretty much a regular dinner, and afterward we'd all go do regular things, sequestering ourselves on opposite ends of the house.
My whole life, I longed for the holidays that I saw on TV (of course, part of that was also longing for snow in 90-degree heat.) I wanted a packed house full of friends, family and foibles. I wanted cocktails and and tons of baked goods and some kind of crazy mishap with the turkey and for nobody to really care because they always realized that in the end they had plenty of pie—and each other.
So, my first year in New York, I was pleased to have made enough friends to host a Thanksgiving meal at my friend Jeremy's place in Ditmas Park. We invited about 15 people and I insisted on cooking the entire meal. From scratch. Which means that I basically spent 2 days straight in the kitchen making things I'd never made (and in some cases, never eaten) and was a tired mess by the time people arrived. I fell asleep after the meal and everyone else went downstairs to the bar. Not my finest hostessing hour.
Needless to say, I learned a lot in the ensuing years. Not very quickly (I'm stubborn that way) and I've continued to try and pull of some large and elaborate recipes just because I wanted to, and as a result have been often too tired to really enjoy the day itself. Somewhere along the way I missed the whole reason that Thanksgiving is so enticing. It's not about the meal. It's a day to simply enjoy all we've been given, and the greatest gift we have is the people we love, and who love us back despite our crazy (and this year, I'm more grateful than ever for my friends who put up with my ridiculousness on the regular.)
I delight in a good party, a well-set table, great food. But more than that, I delight in people.
This year's meal is potluck. I've limited myself to making only the things that I enjoy making and can pull of with ease. We'll all pile in downstairs on the couches to watch football and tell stories and laugh until we cry. Because that's all I've ever really wanted on Thanksgiving day. The feeling of being a family.
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