The Bird Who Brings Us Together, Second Draft

Holiday is synonymous with feast in my family, and for the feast of all feasts, every member of my family braces themselves for a long, but rewarding day. Once a year, for Thanksgiving, my mother abandons boxed macaroni and vacuum-packed hot dogs, and actually goes grocery shopping. Her focus turns about a week before the big day and she spends her time hunting down the fattest bird, lying in his death bed of ice. She also uses her motherly instincts to accumulate a very well-educated guess in the number of potatoes that await her furry, turning them into an obliterated spud flesh perfection.

I take the task of creating the masterpiece which may only be known to the world as green bean casserole –personally, the name should be revised and something along the lines of “the casserole of all casseroles” and should be worldly accepted.

To create such bliss, I first search the family pantry for my victims. The pantry poses problem though, as it resembles a wild, untamed jungle of metal cans and open bags of timeless potato chips. Usually finding the concealed French cut green beans in the middle of a sea of other canned vegetables, my luck runs short with the stuffy, thick cream of Mushroom soup. But not to the tricky little fungus’ avail; I quickly catch it lying hidden behind a random box of Saltines crackers that age back to my original birthday. As I begin my quest in creating a gift from heaven, my brother stumbles about just above the kitchen in our spare bedroom. He doesn’t realize the racket he makes with every step, but today, Thanksgiving Day, no one is concerned with telling him.

My mother and I in the kitchen, my brother and father bump into each other throughout the rest of the house as they scramble to clean. In the eyes of my brother, cleaning means taking everything in sight, and moving it out of sight. With no place or purpose, I watch as he loads his lengthy arms with last Sunday’s paper’s remains, and those few, misplaced, mismatched socks that the cat drags from upstairs to her sanctuary on the living room couch. He crosses our creaky wooden floor, steps onto the freshly cleaned, older-than-dirt carpet, and meets our family computer. Quickly he throws the heap of household memories onto the desk which the computer sleeps. “Clean” reads the caterpillar eyebrows on his face. Returning to the unorthodox dungeon upstairs –which he claims is his own bedroom, my brother disappears until the riveting sent of turkey and stuffing find its way to the senses of my brother’s angry appetite.

My father’s thunder is about to roar. His refined culinary skills are reserved for these very special days. He knows exactly how to spice our bird and its stuffing. He chops young, tender slices of vibrantly orange carrots into near-perfect squares. Next, the unsuspecting celery says goodbye to its head of greenery. Like a hot knife slicing through the thin top layer of butter, my father makes a swift incision through the lifeless green body. The celery slices beautifully, and I imagine the stringy muscles of the vegetable which would have remained if anyone but my father had tried to cut the thing so delicately. After finishing up with the stuffing, the king of the kitchen moves to gratifying gravy for my mother’s lost potato souls. The white heaps of lifeless spuds resemble a heavenly mountain for the hungry fool, but my father knows that the simple joy is not quite complete. Taking the last juices the bird knew, my father cradles the heavy, blue-specked iron roaster, again as old as me, and drains seasoned, deliciously brow coating into a new bowl. From there it’s a mystery, and I leave the kitchen to keep the magic alive. When I next return, gravy, mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, French bread, and canned, thinly sliced cranberry line the counters, ready to fight the seemingly ceaseless battle that is hunger on Thanksgiving Day.

My heart races as my eyes widen to take in all, and just as things begin to slow and transform into that motionless bliss that is frozen time, I hear the rickety rack of my grandmother’s walker, and my sister’s beautifully loud laugh lingering on the outside lawn. Never an orthodox young woman, my sister has finally arrived (fashionably late, as she will forever claim) with the woman who started it all. My grandmother, now limited through her past strokes, still has a keen sense of good eats when she smells them, and she races up our walkway with her walker combated with tennis ball booties to keep the sound minimal. But the sound of her well-known, well-rehearsed quest to our front door rings loudly, and it wouldn’t be the same day had we forgotten to listen.

I walk to the heavy, white metal screen door, push it open into the bright Colorado sunshine that warms our home the way the oven currently is, and watch for three nosey little kitties to try and make there get-away. My grandmother and sister finally reach us, and bring more to the table. Not only does my sister carry with her a large, silver-coated serving platter, (that was once the prized possession of my grandmother’s) on it, mounds of deliciously decorated cookies, Brownies, and other sweets, but she carries with her an imageless comfort.

With my sister, my grandmother, my brother, father, mother, and me, our family has reunited for a single, pleasant afternoon. We still await a second, near-family family, who bring home-made dips, chips, and other “munchies” but in these few precious moments we stand like sitcom TV stars reminiscing in outrageous memories. The smell of our hard work lingers, and taunts our aching bellies –which all of us, including the dog, have starved in order to truly devour and indulge in our upcoming meal. It is most comforting to me when I stand just out of the way, catching bits and pieces of lovely language sprawling out of each family member’s mouth. Looking at the only partially organized house that I call home, I know that there isn’t any place better.

Time passes and the evening continues. My father and brother set our large, banquet table (which we acquired from the hotel my father worked at long ago) and I set out some homemade place mats. My sister is in charge of dishes and drinks, and my mother watches over my grandmother in the kitchen. Our long-time friends arrive, and we finally allow ourselves to snack. The homemade dips and fresher bags of potato chips go to use, and before long we all accumulate next to our 70’s oven in which a plump little bird awaits to consecrate a beautiful memory.

My father finds our single electric cutting knife, reserved only for today, and cuts the meat perfectly. I find some soup spoons, ladles, and anything else large enough to support a serving and make the gourmet cuisine approachable. We at last make our way into the older-than-dirt carpeted living room where the banquet table stands proud, and find our seats. My mother and father grouped as one, then my brother and his best friend, myself at the end of the table, two more friends, circling about the other side, and next to them my sister and her “always made it” fiancé. At the other end of the table sits my grandmother. This moment in time will forever be pictured in my mind’s photo album. Physically, we have but one thanksgiving picture, taken when my grandfather was still with us, and that’s really all we need. Memories of the meal that bring us all together stand strong and frivolously in each of our minds, as is expressed through the smiles, laughter, and vision the family exudes as one.