One of the many benefits of having a tight-knit family and a wonderful circle of friends is that the lead up to Thanksgiving is characterized by the pure joy of anticipation – there is no dreaded racist uncle or nosy aunt or annoying cousin or intolerable neighbor to sully the experience of gathering around the massive round, wooden table that is the centerpiece of my folks’ place in Wildridge. Although we miss Dane and Sarah and the kids tremendously, they get to bring this most American of customs to Dutch shores. And, of course, we also miss those that have passed onto another plane of existence, thankful to have known them and to still have rosy memories of their infectious laughter, engrossing stories, and epicurean leanings.
As with most Thanksgiving celebrations, ours is guided heavily by tradition, with limited and cautious forays into something new, perhaps a novel appetizer or cocktail. With Pops expertly frying the turkeys outside, the interior of the house a mélange of delicious smells, a coupe of champagne in hand, and a low-level hum of spirited conversation, the hours prior to sitting down to the main meal are some of the most precious moments of the year and indeed of my life. When the time comes to dine, we approach the table, greeted by the gorgeous décor and place settings painstakingly coordinated by my stylish and talented mother.
Our tablescape, like yours, contains dishes and trays and silverware and tablecloths passed down from our kin – this day is their time to be shined and then shine briefly before being put back in the closet to sit for another year. These mementos of gatherings past lend an already special day an even more rarified air, a formal representation of the seriousness and solemnity of the occasion, its place atop the pantheon of holidays, especially for my dual religion but overwhelmingly secular clan. And yet, without fail and in short order, the carefully curated assembly is in severe disarray, stains and crumbs everywhere, mostly near my seat since I am a wild beast unleashed upon my gustatory prey.
Each plate, each napkin, each horse-shaped knife rest, each colored crystal glass carries not only its own heft but the psychic weight of generations long gone. I was exceedingly lucky to have both of my grandmothers as a huge part of my life into my thirties, but the flip side to this great fortune was that their passings shattered me. The Thanksgivings that followed their respective deaths were even more emotional than usual – it was always difficult to refrain from crying when going around the table and giving thanks, but now it was impossible to get words out, let alone stem the flood of tears. Instead of elegant accents, witty remarks, crispy/fluffy potato croquettes, and overwhelming love, only their things remained, taking on even more outsized importance in the wake of their departure from this planet.
Tata was the intellectual one – the books and knowledge she passed down to me were much more readily consumed on a daily and ongoing basis. Grandma was the gourmet, a relentless dervish slinging Old World delicacies and harmless French curses. Limiting my exposure to her recipes or culinary mementos to special occasions was overly restrictive – I missed her entirely too much to settle for that. Fortunately, in the post-funereal sorting, I came to inherit the Villeroy & Boch dining set with the winter scenes, a ceramic repository of remembrance of the many happy hours spent at Grandma’s table stuffing my face full of delights and/or daydreaming of skiing.
It was as if I was gifted the crown jewels. Even though they were packed securely in specially designed parcels that bore Grandma’s handwriting (the sight of that cursive still levels me), I was mortified that I might inadvertently chip the only tangible reminder of that wonderful woman. With great care, I took them home and tucked them away in a particularly safe spot in my crawlspace. For the better part of two years, they sat there, untouched by hands but looming large in my mind.
One day in the lead up to Christmas, when I was really missing Grandma, I went down and unpacked one of the boxes, just to look at and hold a single plate, a way to commune with her through space-time. I rubbed my hands over the surface, studied those sledders and snowmen that had been my dining companions, flashes of grand meals past exploding in my eyeballs. Overcome, I sat on the floor and cried heavy tears.
Following that experience, I knew that Grandma’s dishes could not sit as relics. They were precious to me, but not precious in the larger sense, such that they needed to be safeguarded. I took the boxes up into the kitchen and unpacked them ceremonially. At first, I intended to use them solely during the holidays, not wanting to tempt fate with daily use. That first winter, after using them every day, with every use bringing great joy and commemoration, I could not bear to hide them away while snow was still on the ground, so they went back into the closet on the same day that the skis got packed away.
Eventually, given that the plates granted quotidian smiles and a link between Violet and her great-grandmother, the dining set attained a permanent place in the kitchen cabinets. They never fail to warm my heart, even when I almost drop a plate and miraculously save it from breaking. To date, I have lost exactly one bowl to irreparable damage. That was a dark day, but not as devastating as I would have expected. Fortunately, after a deep dive on the internet, I found a replacement and have bookmarked that page for when we inevitably break another dish.
Ceramics, like bodies, are transitory. The mental image of Grandma’s smile, the recalled smell of roast goose, the tactile delight of her hugs, those things are with me forever. This Thanksgiving, as you sit with your people, take the time to capture those memories in your heart and never forget to tell those you love how much they mean to you.