Thanksgiving is Coming

Last week the New York Times enlisted two writers to argue about what was more important at Thanksgiving: the turkey or the sides. We will not add to the vitriol and debate that plagues this nation. Do we really need to fight about this? No. The answer is that they both make Thanksgiving special.

I see it like this. A turkey is the American touchstone. Every family has a turkey. It is what ties us to every other American who stops, gives thanks, and celebrates Thanksgiving on that Thursday. Sides tell your family's story. The sides that decorate the table make your Thanksgiving, well, your Thanksgiving.

In our household, we start Thanksgiving with a cocktail. Preferably one with bourbon and not much else, but an Old Fashioned makes an appearance from time to time. Maybe a few mimosas for the womenfolk. There are usually Better Cheddar and Wheat Thins on a cheeseboard with some grapes and strawberries. Why? Because.

The younger of my two older sisters will make a crawfish and corn bisque (because nothing says "late fall" like crawfish). This same sister will invariably wear a summer dress and remark how cold it is, leading to a fire being started on her behalf. This in turn causes the house to fill up with smoke as it becomes apparent the flue hasn't been opened since it was last closed.

Before brining, foil hats, and frying came into popular lexicon, it seemed like the turkey cooked for the whole month of November. While the turkey was in its last trimester, Mom made mashed potatoes with russets, a hand mixer, margarine, Daisy sour cream, and a microwave. I use yukon golds boiled with the skin on, steamed, then peeled and run through the Kitchen Aid mixer. I use roughly three cows of cream and a tub of butter, a good dash of Crystal, and some creme fraiche. Mom's still wins.

Then there is oyster dressing from my dad. The recipe calls for a quart of raw ersters and their likker. He buys two quarts, using one as his "payment" as he cooks down the trinity inside an old gray battleship re-purposed as a dutch oven. Even though he has made the dish countless times, there will be a last minute run to Office Depot to pick up toner so that he can print out the recipe. This is usually preceded by a litany of curse words and always succeeded by a final trip to the grocery store.

There is also corn goodness - corn sauteed with butter, jalapeno, onion, roasted red pepper, and garlic. In its original incarnation, corn goodness was as salty as an old sailor, which I blame on Fat Harry's the night before. Now whenever it is served one sister will say, "Rene, don't ruin it this year. Ohh remember how hungover you were? You looked like death."

Fresh green beans with garlic, butter, and lemon make an appearance, solely for the purpose of being able to say, "Look, that's greenish." There might be other things that make a cameo one year or so, but they are soon forgotten and dismissed to the kids' table.

As you well know, armies march on their stomachs, and to that end, breads are vitally important. Rolls, French, and Bunny (for turkey, mashed potato, gravy, and cranberry sandwiches Thursday night) can not be overlooked.

Now comes dessert. I remember once when my oldest sister made pecan pie. She could not have been older than 16 or so. She was really into "jazz" and Marlboro Lights. To make this pie she asked the rest of the family to leave the house the weekend before Thanksgiving, presumably because the crust needed to rise in a controlled environment. That year there were beer cans behind the garage and a McKenzie's receipt in the trash.

I always associate Thanksgiving with orphanages. Why? Well, as a youth, following rules, behaving, and the like were not my strong suits. Now they are absolute bedrocks. Nearly every Thanksgiving after Mass (why was Mass involved on an American holiday?), we would drive by the old orphanage on Carrollton, and my sisters and parents would tell me to get out. I always believed them, just for a second.

Now that is a side dish uniquely mine.