This time of the year, I am always thankful to have so many
wonderful Thanksgiving memories.
My Grandma Fitz would cook a huge, traditional dinner and serve
it at her small apartment on Colfax Avenue in Chicago.
This time of the year, I am always thankful to have so many wonderful Thanksgiving memories.
My Grandma Fitz would cook a huge, traditional dinner and serve it at her small apartment on Colfax Avenue in Chicago.
She was a great cook, an amazing sight in her tiny kitchen, juggling so many things at once like all great cooks somehow do.
All of a sudden a beautifully set table with a lit candle in the centerpiece would be jammed with big bowls and platters heaped with mashed potatoes, green beans, yams, stuffing, rolls, apple sauce, cranberry slices, celery sticks with cheese, gravy and, of course, mounds of sliced turkey, white and dark meat.
The smell was one you never forget, along with the everlasting portrait.
My great uncle, my grandmother’s brother who was a Catholic priest, would show up wearing his traditional black pants and shirt with the white collar and would always bring a black leather satchel. It must be filled with holy items for the Last Rites, right? Or hosts or rosaries or scapulars?
Nah. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, Father Leo would open up the mini suitcase and pull out a bottle of champagne, wine, Scotch and Crown Royal.
My other great uncle, his brother, was a hilarious pipecoverer who loved to drink booze.
He would always say, “Leo brought the expensive stuff. Musta been a good week for the collection basket.” We would all roar with laughter.
My dad was in charge of slicing the turkey and wouldn’t stop carving until the bird was almost bare bones, despite my mom saying every year: “Bob, that’s enough. Will you please come and sit down.”
Then my dad would finally sit down and tell my grandmother “Mother, will you please sit down” as she wiped her brow coming out of the steamy kitchen and took off her apron to join us.
Me or my brother Kevin or one of my cousins would be named by Father Leo to “say prayers” and we would clasp our hands and bow our heads.
“Bless us O Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord.” And then we would all say “Amen.”
Then Father Leo would mumble “Very good, very good.” Then we would start to pass the platters from right to left and tell Grandma Fitz how delicious everything looked, which it truly was.
Every year, my dad would say, “Save the drumstick for Kevin. He likes the drumstick.” And every year my brother would look at me and roll his eyes and then reach for the drumstick because, well, everyone saved it for him every year.
Most of those funny and kind and generous and hard-working and such loving relatives of mine are dead now. I sure miss them, especially my dad, especially this time of the year.
Next week, when you gather with your loved ones, savor every moment of it. Hug them a little longer, talk to them a bit more, squeeze their hand and tell them how much they mean to you and how important they have been in your life.
You never know when they’ll be gone, even the young ones who seem so indestructible.
If there is someone you know who is going to be alone, invite them over. Even if they decline, you will make them feel better. Or give them a call if they’re too far away to join you in person. This is a tough time for those who are less fortunate or who have recently lost someone dear to them.
Have a joyous Thanksgiving.
And save the drumstick for my brother Kevin.
