L is for Lessons

For the last twenty-two years I’ve been going over the river and through the woods for Thanksgiving dinner. Except instead of traveling through the river and woods, I navigate the 405, 5 and then the 14 freeways, exiting at Aqua Dulce Canyon, where I take a windy road through the high desert of Los Angeles to Dad and Mom’s house.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was always a lot of fun! As a child, the smell of turkey cooking in the oven wafted through the entire house. Mom always bought a huge turkey and started cooking super early in the morning. I’d pull myself out of bed and groggily walk past the living room, where Dad sat in his chair reading the paper, the sounds of the Macy’s Day Parade playing from the television. 

Entering the kitchen, I found Mom in her zone, locked in as she created a variety of dishes for our feast. Mom didn’t like anyone else in her kitchen, especially on holidays. The kitchen was her territory. Everything was timed and mapped out to optimize her schedule. She used recipes as suggestions, making every dish her own. (Which led to some very creative meals.) I’d watch as she whirled around, adding a dash of this to one dish and a dollop of that to another. Her dance was a cross between a beautiful, graceful dancer and the Tasmanian devil. There was a purpose to each movement (that anybody except Mom understood), a choreography honed over the years. It was like watching an artist. And I was mesmerized. I never wanted to get in her way, but she would occasionally let me help. She’d assign me simple tasks like trimming the green beans or opening a can of yams. I was so happy to share in that experience, if only for a little bit, hoping that my little tasks somehow contributed to her success.  

As each one of my siblings awoke, we would file into the living room, take our spots on the couch and watch the parade. Seeing those enormous balloons escorted down the streets of New York was so exciting! There was something about that city- it was glittery and big and so different from Miami. It pulled at me from a very young age. A tiny seed was planted.

After the parade we’d play some games while Dad went to the garage to fiddle with his woodworking projects. Later in the afternoon, he’d call me outside, where we’d toss the football around in the middle of the street, doing our best to avoid hitting parked cars or windows. I loved playing catch with my Dad. I was an athletic kid and (I’d like to believe) this was something that impressed him. Eventually, we all ended back in the living room to watch football.

And then, at around 5pm, Mom surfaced from the kitchen announcing, “Roy, it’s time to carve the turkey!” 

Side bar: I could write numerous blogs on Dad’s turkey carving routine.  Suffice it to say that he approached this task with the intensity he brought to everything else in his life. (Read: Stay out of his way, he means business.)

Once the carving was complete, the grandparents had arrived, and all of Mom’s prepared dishes were placed on the table, it was time to eat!  We’d all gather around a beautifully set table (laid out by none other than me! …OK, sometimes my siblings did it, too.), Dad would say a few words about family and then we’d dig in! Turkey, stuffing, yams with marshmallows (lots of butter and brown sugar!), green beans (mushy because that’s how Mom made all of her vegetables), marshmallow salad (Mom’s twist on ambrosia), cranberry sauce, (the canned jelly one, of course!) and rolls. Pies for dessert. (Ick!) And because I’m a cake gal and never liked pie, Mom always had a little something for me on the side- a piece of chocolate, a cookie, or a brownie. This was the Altman traditional-ish Thanksgiving feast!

As a teenager, Mom opened our home to all of our friends. Our Thanksgiving table grew longer and longer, filled with kids! There were also seats for the Grandparents or anyone else that didn’t have a place to go for Thanksgiving. The house was brimming with people and I loved it!

Home from college, I looked forward to Mom’s meals. Our traditions remained consistent. We still watched the parade, played ball, and had a huge feast, but the best part of coming home by far was reuniting with my whole family. No matter what was going on in each of our individual lives, we had each other. Conversations were robust, the house overflowing with love. Yes, there was the usual dysfunction, but that was part of the Altman family traditional gathering!

There were a couple of occasions in my twenties when I couldn’t go back to Florida for Thanksgiving. While I missed going home, I had some wonderful holidays away. After college, I saw my first snowfall while living in Brooklyn Heights on Thanksgiving day. I woke up early in the morning to find a city blanketed in white- untouched, peaceful and quiet. It was magical! Another year, my work friends gathered and we celebrated with a potluck. Typical twenties fodder, all of us experimenting, doing our best to prepare adult food. And years later, the seed planted while watching the NYC parade on television came to life as I stepped out of my Columbus Avenue apartment and around the corner to Central Park West, where I saw the balloons being inflated right before my eyes. I stood there in awe as I watched the ginormous balloons laid out, taking up entire city blocks, and then inflated- my inner child jumping with glee!  

When it came time to introduce Mike to our traditional Thanksgiving, I was both excited and apprehensive. Poor guy…a midwesterner being thrown into a loud, Jewish family! Initially, he was overwhelmed; but eventually it was wonderful. 

I have so many amazing memories of Thanksgiving. When we were very little, Mom would have us decorate the turkey after it came out of the oven. She’d hand us cranberries or parsley and we’d lay them all over and around the turkey. And then they just as quickly came off so Dad could get to work carving.

Or there was the time when Mom got so busy in the kitchen that she forgot to put the pumpkin filling in the pie. So when it was time for dessert and she sliced into the pie, her knife went straight down. The look on Mom’s face as she realized there was no filling in her pie was priceless. She'd be teased about this for years to come - a typical ‘Mom mistake,’ part of what made her uniquely ‘Mom.’ But her oversight ended up being the perfect setup for a  food fight! There was enough cool whip for everyone to dig in and take part. We had a blast! 

By the time Mike and I had kids, Dad and Mom were living in California, a 45 minute drive from our home in Los Angeles. And for the last 22 years, we celebrated every single Thanksgiving at their house. Over time, Mom began to open up her kitchen to me. Don’t get me wrong, she still did all the heavy lifting, preparing the turkey and main side dishes, but  I’d moved up to the assistant position.  Following her instructions, I’d place things in and then pull them out of the oven, help her time everything, add more marshmallows, never questioning anything she did. (OK, that’s not entirely true. Of course I gave her grief. “No, we never put bananas in the yams!” etc That was part of being a good assistant.) But I loved being in the kitchen with Mom. Sometimes we’d sing or dance to holiday music in between adding dollops of this or dashes of that. Sweet memories.

In between helping Mom, I’d plop down next to Dad to watch some football. We no longer tossed the ball outside, but that was ok because now we spent time enjoying watching our boys, his grandsons. They brought so much energy into the house. They’d play their musical instruments, sing, run with the dogs or just listen to Dad’s stories. Dad was a great Poppy.

And at 5pm we were all rewarded with another fantastic Thanksgiving feast.  

Three years ago we celebrated our last Thanksgiving with Dad. We all had a sense. His words about family were deliberate. He died 5 days later. 

And then when we arrived at Mom’s house two years ago, the most bizarre thing happened. Carrying mashed potatoes in one hand and brownies in the other, I was prepared to step in as her dutiful assistant again. But instead of finding the whirling dervish in the kitchen, I found Mom relaxing comfortably on the couch. NOT IN HER KITCHEN! ON THANKSGIVING!  It was a shock to my system. Had I entered an alternate universe? There were ingredients for a few side dishes sitting on the counter, but she hadn’t started anything. The turkey was in the oven, but it was barely thawed. What the heck was going on? In all of our conversations leading up to the holiday, there hadn’t been any discussion, not a single word that Mom may not want to prepare dinner. 

In a daze, I asked Mom what was going on and honestly, I can’t even recall her response. I’m sure it was something like, (and for best result read this with a Jewish accent, adding guilt for effect), “Oh, I figured you wanted to do your OWN Thanksgiving this year.”  

But there was no time to dwell. Our boys were getting hangry. I knew the holiday was on a timer before everything erupted into a big fiasco. I jumped into action, throwing dishes together, heating things up as quickly as I could. I didn’t have any time to think. I just did my best and got a meal on the table. Whew!

Unbeknownst to me, the baton had been passed. From this point forward, Mom would not be making our Thanksgiving feast. Now I was in charge.

But wait!  I didn’t ask for this. Preparing this meal is STRESSFUL! I am not a chef, nor do I enjoy working so many hours in the kitchen only to witness the meal engulfed in moments.  How do chefs find this pleasurable?  

So when I found myself complaining about the stress of the upcoming holiday to my husband, he lovingly held up a metaphorical mirror.  Yep, that’s kinda hard, but once I got my ego out of the way, very insightful. 

I became aware of the little girl inside of myself who loved coming home to her Mommy’s meals. And she was sad. Very sad. “Do you mean my Mommy will never cook another meal for me?”  

I mean, I like being Mom’s assistant and I am not ready to receive the baton.

Becoming aware that I will never experience the ease of showing up to a fully prepared meal where my only responsibility was to eat and celebrate was tough.

Then resentment, anger, frustration, and judgment surfaced. “Boo hoo. You poor little girl having to cook your own Thanksgiving meal. Get over yourself.” 

Yes, I know. But there are so many changes happening these days, I’m having a hard time keeping up. The boys are growing up, I’m feeling lost with no idea what direction I should head. Mom is more fragile and illnesses keep surfacing. And I find myself wondering, could this be our last Thanksgiving together?  

Lots of sadness. 

So how do I move forward? 

Well, I gave myself time to feel all the feelings- which by the way, was not pleasant. I got angry- hit some pillows. Got sad- cried lots (and lots) of tears. Forgave myself for my judgments. And reframed resentments. While this is easily summed up in a paragraph, it took a good bit of energy and time to move through. Definitely middle of the storm stuff. 

But storms DO end. And with a little grace, I felt the heaviness begin to clear and an opening revealed. It was like the fog lifted and I saw a path forward. I’ve been pondering some of Victor Frankl’s thoughts quite a bit lately and it moved through me in a whisper. It reminds me that no matter the circumstance, I have the gift of choice. I may not be able to control what’s going on around me, but I certainly have the ability to choose how I respond to the situation. Choice is the solution.

So I asked myself a few questions: 

What do I want? 

How can I take care of myself and my family? 

If not stress, what?  

And I began to create an ideal scene for what I’d like Thanksgiving to look like. My way. No whirling dervish. No time crunch. A relaxed, joyful experience.

Immediately ideas and visions began to flood my brain. I pictured both of our boys in Mom’s kitchen, helping me prepare the meal. There’s no reason we can’t all share in the creation of this feast! We joke with each other, dance and sing. No hangry boys in this kitchen. Just joy and laughter. I pictured Mike going back and forth between the kitchen and Mom, making sure she felt included and loved when I couldn’t be sitting next to her. I’ll toss the ball around a little with our younger son, but instead of using a football, we’ll play some catch with a baseball. I pictured our meal coming together with ease. And finally, I pictured us all sitting together at the dining room table we’ve sat at for the last 22 years, enjoying a wonderful Thanksgiving feast. That is my intention.

So L is for lessons. They may not be easy, but I’m grateful for the blessings they've brought on this Thanksgiving. The lesson of choice revealed a path to joy, happiness, abundance and peace.  What a perfect holiday to allow for healing. And it reminded me that L is also for life, laughter, light and LOVE!  

What a gift. 

I hope you’ll also find joy during this holiday season. Maybe it’ll be in a piece of pie, or maybe it will be from a warm hug you share with a friend or family member. Let’s cherish these moments together.  

Happy Thanksgiving.

In loving,

Sarah