Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday because it’s filled with two things I love most: family and food. I remember childhood Thanksgivings when my mother Ruth spent days preparing the meal, starting with fresh giblet gravy, homemade blueberry and apple pies, cranberry sauce, candied sweet potatoes, and Waldorf salad. These all led up to Thanksgiving morning, when she arose early to make fresh stuffing to bake inside the large turkey. The smells filled our kitchen all day, making my stomach growl and causing me to check often to see if Mommy needed my help as her “official taster.”
She would feed me a spoonful of what was cooking and ask, “Libby, does it need a little more salt?” I’d either nod or shake my head, often requesting a second taste, just to be sure the seasoning was right.
Aunt Florrie and her daughter Davida often came from New York to join us for Thanksgiving dinner. I adored my petite, widowed great-aunt, who was a wise, well-read woman. I idolized her daughter Davida, a Manhattan career woman, who spent occasional weekends with us in New Jersey. Both women had flawless complexions, heads full of dark curls, and beautiful smiles. They also displayed impeccable manners, and having them at our Thanksgiving table put me on my best behavior.
Imagine my chagrin the year that I ruined Mommy’s apple pie. That Thanksgiving, while my father served the delicious pies my mother had baked, I reached for my piece and accidentally tipped the open bottle of cognac onto the apple pie. I grabbed the bottle, but it was too late. Cognac dowsed the pie, and I thought I’d ruined dessert. “I’m sorry,” I said, as tears welled in my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Libby,” Daddy assured me. “It will be just fine.”
His consolation did not comfort me, and I thought the apple pie tasted terrible. I opted for blueberry instead. Oddly enough, the adults all seemed to prefer the apple pie that year.