With a three-year old and no travel plans for Thanksgiving, we planned dinner around her nap. That gave us the whole morning to work around the house. As L grows, she’s increasingly eager to help.
It’s impossible to put beans into the coffee grinder or tea into the infuser without L calling, “I want to do it! I want to help!” When I stir something in the sauce pan, when K sweeps the kitchen, L is there, ready to help.
Indeed, if we don’t let her help (either intentionally or accidentally), it sometimes leads to a mini-meltdown.
When we arrived at Nana and Papa’s for turkey and the fixings, they had a surprise for L.
“We’re tired of making a tent for her,” Nana explained earlier in the week when I dropped by. It was, I would imagine, a well-established ritual: ottomans pushed together, with a blanket spread over it to create a small space for L to wallow in.
As planned, it kept the Girl busy while everyone helped out with the final stages of dinner.
Turkey with dressing and giblet gravy, with sides of rice, casserole, and cranberry sauce. What could be more American? Indeed, as I ate dinner, I remembered when, living with a host family in Poland, I was asked to create a typical American meal. I mentioned the Thanksgiving feast; I was relieved when told (this was 1996) that getting a whole turkey would be, at best, difficult.
After dinner was play time (until the turkey overwhelmed Papa and he began his post-dinner, in-seat nap).
It was the first Thanksgiving without any extended family at all. No traveling; no sleeping in strange beds; no absolute dread if it was a rainy day in South Carolina, requiring us all to stay inside with four generations of smokers. It was Thanksgiving without any of the negatives. It also lacked some of the positives that certainly accompany large family gatherings.
Yet, for one of the first Thanksgivings L will probably remember (at least for a few years), it was perfect. Especially the Mlenmorangie Papa brought out after dinner.