The fall has long been my favorite season, and I love its celebratory holiday, with the Pilgrims and their hats and corn and all that old-fashioned simplicity.  I’m quite certain that I’ve glossed over my own Thanksgiving memories with that pretty, fine glaze we like to apply to the past, but I when I think back they’re filled with visions of family gathered around the kitchen and living room, with endless amounts of stuffing and turkey and pie.  Oh yes, especially cherry pie. 
 

Thanksgiving, for me, is a less stressful holiday, even though I often end up cooking.  I realize that for lots of women, the idea of cooking and baking and preparing food for so many can put them over the edge, and I get that.  But for me, the cooking isn’t overwhelming in the least.  Much more difficult for me are the other holidays and there is something that overwhelms me about each of them: the costumes at Halloweeen, the spiritual tension at Christmas, or the whole why-must-there-be-a-bunny discussion at Easter.  These things I find overwhelming; cooking, not so much.

That said, I’m certain it hasn’t always been a sure bet that I’d end up the Thanksgiving hostess.  My favorite story isn’t even mine:  it’s my mom’s.  When she and my dad were first married, and living far, far away from where they’d grown up, relatives came to visit the newlyweds for Thanksgiving.  In anticipation of the big day, my mom prepped and cooked and stressed, I’m sure, to get it all just right.  And things looked good:  food ready, table set, conversation moving.  But when the time came to cut the bird, something curious happened.  The conversation quieted, and my sweet, young mother realized that she was supposed to take that plastic bag and its contents out before cooking… Ah, well.  We all learn from our mistakes and she has become a fine turkey cook over the years.  And pie, did I mention her pie?

Early in my own marriage, it looked as though the non-domestic qualities may have been passed down.  When I asked my husband, on his first birthday after our wedding, what kind of cake he’d like me to make (I was trying!), I thought he’d answer with a flavor I’d select from Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines.  But no.  What he said, exactly, was, “I’d really like an Italian Cream Cake.”

A what?

I definitely had not seen that in the cake aisle.  I furtively called his mom, and she faxed me the very complicated recipe.  (Anything that involved more than adding oil and eggs was complicated for me, people.  I was new at this.)

I measured and stirred and beat those eggs whites and poured the batter into the new tins we’d bought.  As I slid it into the oven, it just didn’t look right.  “Greg,” I called.  “Something doesn’t look right about this cake.”  He slid over to the oven, pulled open the door, and asked, “Did you add flour?”

Flour!  Right!

But, lo, these many years later, I can bake a mean Italian Cream Cake and a delicious stuffed turkey.I’ve come a long way, baby. 

And for that, we’re all thankful.

This post was written as part of Parent Bloggers Network’s blog blast.  It’s sponsored this week by the one and only Butterball, which always graces my Thanksgiving table.