Lore Letter 014

Big expectations are on the menu this Thanksgiving.

Author’s note:

Happy almost Thanksgiving! I’m not going home this year, and I’m very excited about my plans to 1. Eat an entire box of stuffing from the pan and 2. See Wicked Part 2. I’m holding space for both!

This week’s Lore is a teeny bit inspired by Die My Love, a movie that I'm having trouble forming an opinion about, which maybe means it was good because it’s stuck with me for weeks. It’s even more so inspired by the exercise in masochism I engaged in last month, when I hosted two elaborate dinner parties back to back. And I’d do it again!

Mother

The brine had to start by 7:30, but ideally the bird would sit in its juices overnight. By morning, the industrial aluminum pan was sloshing with the good stuff, liquid gold as Momma called it. I baked the bread for the stuffing on Monday — no, storebought wouldn’t do, it never did — and left it on the counter with an edict to stale and a warning: DO NOT EAT! The 10-pound bag of Idahoes could be washed, peeled, boiled, and mashed in advance, but that’s not how Momma did it. She knew when something wasn’t fresh and was convinced everyone else did, too.

It was the big day. There were green beans to blanch and sausage to brown. There was cream to be whipped and pie crusts to be layered with butter and rolled onto a floured surface with the good rolling pin, made of marble for an even crumb but God help you if it fell on an errant finger. There were almonds to toast and gravy to whisk whisk whisk until it’s velvety, but not too early in the day or the fat would congeal and not in the good way. The oven taunted me with its long beeps. I checked my watch to make sure the stove clock hadn’t somehow skipped ahead, because it couldn’t possibly be time to put the stuffing in and take the pies out. I hadn’t finished browning the sausage.

The order of operations I wrote neatly on my memo pad the night before was stained and crumpled, practically unreadable except for the timetable that mocked me with its ambition. I didn’t know how behind I was, but Momma wouldn’t have let it happen. I took an unscheduled break to scream into my pillow.

In a moment of weakness, I asked my son-in-law to bring whipped cream — yes, I suppose storebought will be fine — because the stand mixer was still caked with mashed potato stronger than glue. I set the table in record time but kicked myself for not doing it the night before like Momma used to do. I dropped a water glass in the chaos and had to replace it with one from a different set, which made me want to kill myself. I put out the butter in its dish to soften and laughed at the picture, a Thanksgiving dinner with only butter on the menu.

The bell rang. I wiped my hands on my apron and smiled all the way to the door.

Daughter

My husband is so goddamn useless around the holidays. Really, my husband is so goddamn useless, period, but especially when it comes to my family and especially when it comes to my mother. It’s not his fault that his parents are still alive and his siblings are accomplished enough for him to skate by with little effort, but things are different in my family. Ever since Grandmomma died in September, Mom has been spiraling out. I can tell by her phone calls, each more scattered than the last and pulsing with desperation to have it all together. I meant to help her out with the meal this year, but she insisted she didn’t need it. I should have known better.

My arms were full with early Christmas presents and late birthday cards, so my husband rang the doorbell. It was the least he could do.

The turkey was juicy and the rolls were to die for, not that I was surprised. I told Mom as much, and the strained smile she had been wearing the whole afternoon became genuine for a moment.

“Oh, really, dear? You know, they’re Momma’s recipe.”

She seemed to be on the brink. I had huddled with my brother and his wife by my car before we entered, giving them strict instructions to avoid much Grandmomma talk. It was just too soon.

I steered us back to safer ground. The men talked about the Steelers as I held Mom’s hand under the table. Her face finally began to soften. She stood up and clapped, a light dusting of flour spraying from her palms.

“Okay, everyone! Who’s ready for pie?”

She gestured toward my husband to follow her into the kitchen.

“Where’d you put the whipped cream, hon?” she asked over her shoulder. “Thanks again for taking care of that.”

I remembered my husband’s empty hands. So fucking useless. I jumped up before he could say anything.

“Oh dang, Mom, I left it on the counter at home,” I lied, not for my husband’s benefit but for hers. “We don’t need it, though. Your pies are so good already.”

A look of sheer terror glimpsed across her face. I squeezed her hand again.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “Everything will be fine.”

My husband cleared his throat. I braced for impact.

“This has all been great, Mrs. P.,” he said. He belched like he was providing proof. “But I think I’m going to head out now. Some buddies from work are watching the game at Hannigan’s.”

Mother

I know my son-in-law hadn’t gotten up for seconds. In fact, his first plate was still half-full. The green beans were untouched, and his drumstick was nowhere near bone-clean. The gravy on his mashed potatoes had congealed. He was lying to me, right in my house, right in front of the plates that my Momma had gotten in her wedding trousseau.

“No,” I said calmly. His jacket was already halfway on. He looked surprised. He really was as stupid as my daughter said.

“You will eat everything left on that plate, down to the bone.”

I suddenly wanted to laugh. He looked at my daughter, who was staring into her plate, dutifully cleaned with a neat pile of bones to the side. He opened his mouth to protest.

“I mean it,” I said. “Actually, no one leaves until he has finished his food. The other half of the pumpkin pie, too.”

I smiled at him, cowed back into his seat.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t have whipped cream.”

No one spoke while he ate. I watched over his shoulder as he plowed through the pie. He took a gulp of water with each bite, like Joey Chestnut on the Fourth of July to make it go down easy. I hoped it didn’t. It was a shame my pie was so good.

Daughter

We don’t talk about last Thanksgiving. We don’t talk about my ex-husband, either, not while Mom’s around. I know she’d rather forget the whole thing.

Still, she insists on hosting again this year. On the phone a few weeks earlier, she dismissed my offers of help.

“Oh, I can do it by myself just fine, honey. Grandmomma did.”

I stand on her porch on Wednesday night anyway. It had started to snow on my drive over. Mom answers the door after three rings.

“Oh, honey, is something wrong? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow afternoon.”

She wraps a blanket around her shoulders like a swaddle. For the first time, I see a little girl who has lost her Momma. I can’t imagine.

“I’m here to help, Mom. Please let me help.”

A hesitant smile grows until it’s real.

“Oh, good. I was just about to brine the turkey. That’s what makes it good, you know.”