It's Time For My Holiday Special

I think I should write a holiday special for real people.
No one would wear a new sweater to family dinner. The only candles would be the ones in the bathroom for the uncle who refuses to turn on the fan. There would be visible cobwebs and more than a spot of dust on the formal furniture--none of which matches. And of course there would be the best part of all--the food.

I never saw anyone in my family bake a pie with those cute little dough cutouts in the top. My grandmother did make cherry pies with handmade lattice tops that had a crispy sugar crust, but that era recedes in my memory. My mother and aunt are the big cooks in our family nowadays. We alternate holiday dinners, with my mother always hosting Thanksgiving and my favorite aunt holding forth for Christmas. There are the must haves, like turkey and dressing, broccoli casserole, corn from our garden, and the cranberry jello fruit mold that I could hide with and eat the entire bowl before anyone caught on. But it doesn't make it onto china platters or antique soup tureens. There is a beautiful collection of dishes that no one else might appreciate but which come to symbolize the meal itself for our family. And it might make Miss Manners shudder, but it must be done, just like this.

On the large crackled finish platter with a picture of a turkey from my grandmother--goes the turkey. Into the aluminum bun warmer painted red and now peeling--go the cornbread sticks. The pinto beans have their own stoneware bowl, ivory with a goldenrod yellow band around the rim. Always. Mashed potatoes belong in the white serving bowl stamped "Vintage Rose" with a barely visible painting of a bouquet of roses in the bottom. The potato bowl has a chip under the rim and Mom tried to hide it one year telling us it was broken, but when I looked for a replacement dish I spotted it on the bottom shelf and we had to have it. This can alternate as the gravy bowl at breakfast time, but for dinners it is always for the potatoes. In the big yellow electric skillet, you will find the home grown corn, cut off the cob and simmered to comforting buttery goodness. And the dressings, handmade in their own little muffin cups so each person gets some crust on the edge, make themselves home on the oval Corelle platter that matches Mom's dishes. The two tray Tupperware dressed egg container is always there, and yes they are dressed eggs even if Yankees call them deviled eggs. And the big brown pitcher--it's actual name is "Big Brown Pitcher"--sits at the end of the kitchen counter (the bar) filled with sweet tea. The odd assortment of forks and glasses get passed out, we form a general semblance of a line which wraps around the kitchen door and into the living room where my brothers and cousin are laughing about something they probably shouldn't be, and Dad says grace. Then it is Katy bar the door and such a collection of clinks and clanks and spoons clattering and ice cubes rattling and chairs squealing with indignation and hearty laughs and Remember the Time Whens and Oh I Forgot to Set Outs all roll themselves into the sound of my family Thanksgiving.
Most of the year I get by pretty well being separated from my family by a few hours worth of interstate. But when the air is cold and the pumpkins go on clearance I start to think about all of my family and I love them. Warts and all.