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.