The True Thanksgiving Dinner

I am aware that many people are called upon to enjoy two Thanksgiving dinners. Some must find time to spend with two divorced parents. Some accommodate the traditions of two sets of grandparents. Others attend the tables of her mother and then his mother.

We aren't divorced and don't have grandparents nearby, but we deal with two Thanksgiving dinners in our own home. My children are growing up in a mixed Thanksgiving-tradition household. This could probably only happen in a family where both parents consider themselves cooks. Otherwise, one spouse would be forced to defer to the other. I suspect that is what usually happens.

Of course, when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, nothing could possibly beat my mother's cooking: Parker house rolls dripping with real butter, lemon meringue pie. My mother could have made double the fortune of Marie Callender if she'd wanted to. It's been several years since I tasted her actual cooking, but I--among others--try to replicate it.

My husband has his own ideas, and, fairly enough, claims the title of head family cook.

At first, we tried to discuss which type of gravy or stuffing we would have that year, hoping we could trade off menu items every other year like some people trade off going to the in-laws. But that didn't work. What Paul makes is fine, but it's just not what I think of as real Thanksgiving food. And vice versa to him.

So, we serve two types of gravy, two types of stuffing, and at least four pies. He insists on pumpkin and pecan; I insist on lemon meringue and chocolate. I'd want the pumpkin, too, of course--Mom always baked two pumpkin and two lemon pies. But, somewhere along the line, my older, married sister started bringing a heavenly chocolate pie, and now that is as unthinkable to do without as anything else. Pecan pie I could live without.

By the time we children got up on Thanksgiving morning, my mother had made the pie crusts and was breaking bread for her savory buttery, sagey, oniony, and celery-y stuffing, which was so good I could (and did) (and do) eat it raw. We were allowed to help with the bread-breaking part of the meal, a favorite childhood memory.

Incredibly, Paul turns up his nose at it and prefers his family's "less moist," crumbly cornbread stuffing.

But he is magnanimous about sharing the menu. Last year, he stuffed his stuffing into the turkey's breast cavity and offered me the use of that flap of skin by the neck for mine. And he had saved the drippings from a turkey we'd had in early November for me to make my gravy out of so that he could use the real turkey's for his.

My mother made a milk gravy so rich and creamy you could hardly stop asking for the mashed potatoes to be passed again, no matter how many buttons you had already undone on your pants.

Paul cooks the turkey guts--you know, the neck, kidneys, giblets (whatever those are), tongue, beak, and eyes--and sneaks them into his gravy. I forbade him to stink up the house cooking them when I was pregnant, but, otherwise, I can't stop him. He sees this as richer gravy, although I told him the reason they keep those things separate in a little garbage bag--so you can throw them away.

He proudly serves his gravy, and I proudly serve mine. "Try a little of this one, son," we each urge. We both hope in our heart-of-hearts that our children will grow up to make the right choice about Thanksgiving food. I know with all my heart that my food is true, but he apparently has a burning testimony about his.

As far as the children, they're just confused. I feel bad for them, having to discern between two vastly different traditions. Time will tell, and, hopefully, good taste will prevail.

Honesty Is next to Cleanliness?

So, usually when you are walking on the treadmill and someone is walking next to you, you don't look over at them at all, right? At least not at the same time as they are peeking at you to see if your workout clothes are too goofy or whatever. It's kind of weird, really, that we don't talk. But we all like our privacy. Just because we happen to be exercising in tandem with a stranger doesn't mean we have to make friends. But, today, I was stuck for an hour-and-a-half next to someone who did chat at me.

That didn't bug me half as much as what she said.

It's now come to my attention that, just as people have different cleanliness comfort levels, people have different honesty comfort levels.

You know, when it's recommended that people "shower regularly," everyone nods in their own head, whether they shower and wash their hair every day, or think they are only in need after they sweat, or are on a once-a-week schedule. Pretty much everyone thinks they shower regularly--even the one across the table from you whose hair is making you feel a little sick.

Working with people from other countries has helped me realize that many people apparently think Americans are wasteful to wear a whole new outfit every day.

And perhaps we are.

But, it's our comfort level.

So, this girl on the treadmill next to me starts to tell me how she plans to cheat her company before she quits her job. Because, of course, her flight benefits expire "the minute" she quits, so she needs to take a flight to see her folks during the leave of absence she has just arranged and before she quits. Then, before her leave of absence ends, she'll mention that she's giving notice.

"Is that honest?" I asked her.

"I think so," she said. "Because I'm not for one hundred percent sure that I'm going to quit." Then, she proceeds to tell me that she is going to definitely quit before they pay for new training for her, which is scheduled for right after her leave of absence, because "the training is very expensive" and she would not feel comfortable with them spending that money on her when she's planning to quit. "I'm not that kind of person." Yes, I realize the airplane is going to fly to New York with or without her, anyway, but, to me, that is not the point.

I thought about getting off the treadmill before I'd planned, but the treadmill is the only piece of equipment my doctors are allowing me to use right now, and I really wanted to put more time in. I thought about going to another treadmill, but they are all in a line, and she would "for one hundred percent sure" see me do it, so I thought that might be a little too obvious.

I didn't want to be mean to this girl; I just didn't want to hear all about her plans. Especially when she gushed about how nice and caring her supervisor that she's about to take advantage of is.

I once dated a guy who felt guilty if he used some of the ink in a pen from work for a personal matter. People steal pens from work left and right without even realizing it, but he couldn't even "borrow" enough ink to sign his name. Yet, I discovered that he was deceptive in our relationship. When I met his family, they all sat and stared and stared at me. It was like they were all thinking, "I wonder if she knows about. . . ?" Some woman? Some crime? His orientation? I'd still like to know what that was about. I guess my feelings and well-being were less important than a blob of ink.

I guess honesty can be as relative as cleanliness. Even I, who would never tell a lie to anyone else, tell myself numerous lies about the treats I want to eat.

And back to cleanliness--I know that people who look normal walking down the street vary widely from those who have to wash their clothing every night lest something happen to them and the neighbors discover a dirty item of clothing in their house to hoarders who have sixteen pets they don't clean up after. There are people who live in a mess but can't touch a wastebasket lid. People who think nothing of licking their fingers as they pass out their birthday cake.

We all have different cleanliness comfort levels--that's a given. To some extent, it's what we were raised with in our families, but, to perhaps a greater extent, we choose it. It hadn't occurred to me before that it's the same with the junk we sort and file, whitewash, keep or discard, or wear every day in our minds.