I Hate Parades: A Thanksgiving Love Story
Gratitude is a life raft. Also, a BIG thank you for being here...
At the risk of sounding like a holiday scrooge, I hate parades. Being crammed together with thousands of my fellow humans behind street barricades with no escape to pee while watching giant balloons and floats go by is not my idea of a good time. Especially if it’s cold out. Once, in 1976, I somehow found my way into a parade, donning stars and stripes and floating through the streets of Miami to celebrate the Bicentennial, although I have no recollection how or why I ended up there, or whether my parade aversion had yet fully formed.
But my mom loved all of the fanfare that came with the holidays. Preternaturally good-natured and optimistic, she embraced this time of year with a genuine enthusiasm that was both admirable and a little over the top. There was Thanksgiving decor, immediately followed by Christmas decor, and there was food. So. Much. Food. Enough to feed our family and approximately ten others. As a kid I always looked forward to the cold turkey leftovers which I dipped into Miracle Whip. I know, ewwww. But at the time, gourmet!
I remember waking up every Thanksgiving to the sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and a house that smelled both savory and sweet, the pumpkin pie and cheesecake mingling with all of that sage and thyme and nutmeg and celery and onion. She cooked for days, instinctively knowing what to make ahead, what to do day of, and how to expertly choreograph the delicate dance of timing; cooking, heating and reheating, pots and pans and blue cornflower Corningware competing for stove-top and oven real estate, so that it all made it to the table hot and ready to be devoured.
She always made it look so easy.
So when I started hosting my husband’s extended family for Thanksgiving beginning in 2006, remembering my mom’s cool-under-pressure, I thought, “how hard can this be?” Ummm, really hard. Especially when I was just getting my cooking feet under me, and especially when I was still firmly ensnared in the grip of perfectionism. Not only did the food have to taste like it was prepared by a Michelin chef, it had to be served in an environment that would make Martha Stewart proud. I was a lunatic. As the day drew near, I panicked, to the point of having those stress dreams I used to have about walking into a college exam without having studied, only this time it was people arriving to eat when I hadn’t started cooking.
I must have called my mom at least 25 times over the course of the several days of prep and cooking that first year, tapping her extensive (but mostly not written down) knowledge and know-how, asking questions that ranged from the ridiculous (can I use jumbo marshmallows on the mashed sweet potatoes?) to the logistical (buffet or table service?) to every single thing in between. Frequent (sometimes back-to-back) calls that interrupted her own prep and cooking, yet she patiently answered every one of them, delighted that her only daughter had ventured into hosting territory, doing the very thing that brought her so much joy through the years. It was those calls that gave me a fighting chance to at least feign some measure of competence at that debut holiday dinner; with each one she instructed and encouraged me, and more importantly, reminded me that being together was the thing that mattered most.
All these years later, I couldn’t tell you how that food tasted, or what type of flowers I meticulously arranged for the tables, but I do remember those phone calls and how we busted into side-splitting laughter on each and every one. I remember how she talked me off of the culinary ledge time and time again, how just hearing her voice infused me with a sense of calm. Those calls got me through that first Thanksgiving, and all the ones that came after.
The holidays will never be the same without my mom. Nothing is the same, really. But life is not meant to be static, and we must learn to adapt to its ever-shifting contours, finding new ways through and forward. Grief is inevitable, its sharp edges inescapable. By the time we reach midlife most of us will have experienced the crush of great loss, the heaviness of absence. Grief is the price of love, they say; the two are inextricably linked. Worth every proverbial penny I say, resources well-spent, because the truth is love never dies.
Over time Thanksgiving has grown even more meaningful to me with its focus on gratitude and giving thanks for the abundance in our lives. The older I get, the more I realize how profoundly important gratitude is to my sense of well-being. Recently, I wrote an essay about grief for my upcoming anthology, Midlife Private Parts. In it, I talk about how gratitude kept me afloat when I thought I might drown in sorrow, and how most days I hold on to it like my life depends on it. At this point, I’m actually pretty sure it does.
On this third Thanksgiving without my mom, I’m mercifully not cooking for 20+, but I am holding her close in my heart, filled with gratitude for all that was, and for all that remains.
Oh, and I’ll turn on that parade in honor of the woman who loomed larger than any giant floating Snoopy ever could...
Wishing all of you a very Happy Thanksgiving filled with love and abundance. I am incredibly grateful for each and every one of you who read these little labors of love- my heart is full just knowing that you are out there, and that this work connects with you in some way. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your shares, your likes, your comments, your encouragement and your support! Sending love…
Dina xx
Just the most beautiful essay, Dina—and tribute to your beautiful mother (beauty and love, all around). You have captured so much here of all that your mother created in both your home and hearts at Thanksgiving (I could picture the scene, and smell the delicious home cooking!) that will resonate with so many, despite being so personal and such a privilege to read. What a joy having your "forever co-chef" in Max, too, and all these memories that are EVERYTHING (the recipe planning scribbles almost made me hyperventilate just looking at that them, like something from The Bear!😂 I. Could. Never!). So wonderful that your mother cooked alongside you, even from a distance, guiding you through it all. And that photo with her 🐶 is beyond beautiful. ❤️
The worst part of all of this is my deep regret at never having met her and the best part is that you were blessed with a mother who exuded loving kindness every step of the way for you. A most beautiful thing and am so happy she was and continues to be such a beautiful part of your life. So much so, that your writing shows every element of you and her combined. Beautifully written Dina. I know how much she is enjoying these thoughtful tributes and life lessons you share here….xx so glad we met.