Thanksgiving Dinner

When I was a child Thanksgiving meant one thing—going to Nana and PopPop’s in South Ardmore, Pennsylvania for a great all-clan feast. It was probably the only time in the year that I would see cousins, aunts and uncles, and whoever else showed up. In my adult years, our more modest gatherings always began by going around the table, each one saying something for which they were thankful. Not a bad idea.
But back to Nana’s great dinner. What I most vividly remember was the marvelous aroma that drifted from the kitchen and hit you even before the door on Marthart Avenue was opened. About the Turkey. It must always have been some farmer’s award-winning bird. It was huge!--almost too big to fit in Nana’s giant oven. I probably hadn’t eaten a bite earlier that day, just waiting for my bit of crusty skin, and whatever else was put on my plate.

No matter how strong the anticipation, when our little family finally arrived, we were told that the Turkey was not quite done. That giant bird must have taken all day or even two, just to cook through. When it finally came out of the oven there was another hour’s wait until it could be properly carved. Finally that job was passed to my father, who like a surgeon, carefully cut each slice. By this time I was about to die from hunger—right on the living room floor.

As an adult, and the job of cooking a Turkey at home fell to me, I realized that my seventeen pound bird was no match for Nana’s. But there was always enough, and I remember the Turkey sandwiches that would appear for the next month—followed by Turkey soup.
There came a time when I was involved in a sabbatical in Cambridge, England. Wendy, and young daughter, Mary, were due to arrive at my apartment late in the afternoon, and still remembering the aroma emanating from Nana’s kitchen, I decided to surprise them with a roasted Turkey. While this was not quite Thanksgiving day, I went ahead. What immediately struck me was (1-)the minuscule counter-top oven in my apartment, and (2)-the ignorance of the English who apparently had never heard of roasted Turkey.

But when I get my mind riveted on something, there is no turning back, so I went on a shopping trip to the nearby butcher shop. Alas, no small Turkey. Indeed no Turkey of any size. SoBut I settled on a decently robust chicken—and that is what I cooked.

I hoped to end the feast with a traditional pumpkin pie, so I asked the local green-grocer if he could get me a proper orange-colored pumpkin. He was flabbergasted. “No English cook would think of using a vegetable to make a pie.” Anyhow, the dinner went ahead, highlighted by my magnificent “Turkey.” (as an honorific, Turkey is capitalized throughout this column.)

I remembered these stories because a few days ago I told Wendy I wanted to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner similar to the one I had produced in Cambridge, thinking we might invite a couple of friends.
At this point reality butted in. 1-There was no way to go to a store and purchase a “Turkey” or any of the trimmings that would accompany it. 2-No friends would be permitted to share the meal in our apartment or even outdoors--- so I gave up the idea. Nevertheless, I will not be deterred. On some post Virus Thanksgiving, the scent coming from our apartment will match the aroma that once upon a time drifted from a simple row house on Marthart Avenue.