My Louisiana born and raised husband looked at the thanksgiving table with surprise and dismay - candied yams, mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, sweet peas, thick brown gravy in a silver gravy boat and the inevitable platter of olives and celery. No rice? he asked me in a low voice, no greens? And where are the biscuits and the oyster dressing and the grits? My grandmother overheard and laughed out loud as she directed him to a seat, This is New England, home of the first thanksgiving, so sit and eat, she told him firmly.
My memories of Thanksgiving range from my grandmother's elegant table to a noisy, crowded restaurant after she died, to rickety card tables and frozen vegetables at my mother's. We celebrated it because it was a traditional holiday but there was precious little giving thanks and I was always relieved when it was over. My first holiday dinner with my husband's family was like going back in time - a table set with snowy linens and gleaming silver, crystal wine and water glasses, candles. The food was different but the effect was the same - I couldn't wait to get away.
Family holidays annoy me.
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