My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, & I thank you..

The NPR stations have been visiting immigrants' kitchens this week to find out what they cook for Thanksgiving.  I listened with interest and amusement.  A Greek chef and his family had turkey but the lamb cooked in the open pit was the star.  All side dishes were Greek.  The French chef did very sexy French things to the turkey, and converted all else to French attitudes.  And so it went.  I had never thought of mine as an immigrant family, but since I'm a first generation American, I suppose it was.  As a kid I thought it odd when other kids had grandparents born in America.  Perhaps I imagined that everyone came from somewhere else.  Anyway, today I accepted my origins and recalled the Thanksgivings in my parents'/grandparents' home.  The only thing foreign was the conversation typically in Yiddish.  My grandparents' generation was all about assimilation.  My grandmother, Genya, became Jennie.  Her brother, Toldras, became Harry.  You get the idea.  She was hurt and angry if you referred to her accent.  She insisted she didn't have one.  (Meryl Streep could have imitated her for Sophie's Choice.) So my grandmother and mother referred to magazines and cookbooks to create the consummate, American Thanksgiving dinner.

My mom loved to set an elegant table.  Organdy appliqued tablecloths; crystal cornucopia with fruit and nuts pouring out onto the table; Lenox china with a gold wheat design.  Her turkey was the largest she could find; her stuffing began with cornflakes (really!).  Candied yams, apple pie, jello molds, apple cider.  On and on.  The gorgeous Henredon table, it seemed, opened to accommodate a cast of hundreds.  And waking up Thanksgiving morning to the smell of that dinner cooking; well, it was childhood euphoria.

After my father died, predeceased by grandma Jennie, my mother married Bonpapa.  He was Belgian and spoke many languages.  But his primary language was French and his accent was cultivated French (very theatrical).  When we went to their first Thanksgiving dinner, I expected something different;  the French touch??  It was the same dinner; the only difference was the abundance of wine.  Not an unwelcome addition.

I'm grateful for those memories.  And the how-to.  From the beginning of my married life, when our economy was non-existent, our table -- no matter the size -- welcomed all who would come. (the only request we'd make is please bring a chair to sit on!) My turkey is basically the same as mom's -- including the stuffing.  Other dishes have changed to satisfy the taste buds of my children and now my grandchildren.  Not so many people in attendance these days.  My friends are far-flung; my children have happy lives in remote cities.  And the folks I care about here have gatherings with children and grandchildren of their own.  The constant that remains is the gratitude; my thanks for the giving.  The gifts of the universe;  the love and caring of my family and friends.  My ability to give when needed and asked for and when needed and anonymous.  

And to keep myself company while preparing the all-American feast,  I sing Yiddish songs, an occasional French tune,  and permit the wondrously familiar smells that permeate my apartment to take me back to many a Thanksgiving-Past.  When my little gathering arrives, I, of course, spare them all of that.  They're making memories of their own.