A couple of chilly, rainy days kept me indoors and put me in a reflective mood. Since we were nearing Thanksgiving, my ruminations turned toward the blasted ghosts and gilded memories of holiday get togethers past.
Depending on how you looked at it, growing up with my
extended family was either a blessing (think Charles Dickens, A Christmas
Carol) or a curse (e.g., Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca, My Cousin Rachel,
Stephen King’s Misery.) Being the eldest daughter of the only son, I
occupied a relatively protected position safely ensconced in a buffer layer of older
first cousins. This gave me a particularly good vantage point for observing family
dynamics and being a naturally inquisitive child, I took full advantage.
Because we lived in Chagrin Falls, Ohio, we stayed with our
cousins in Pittsburgh, PA on big holidays. Now, I don’t know if this is specifically
a Pittsburgh thing, but my three great-aunts and their families lived in their
homes directly across the same street. None of these houses were ever locked.
We rampaged through each of them freely at will, looting their snack cupboards
and pilfering the liquor cabinets and partying in their unheated and
uninsulated expansive third floors. No one ever said anything or tried to stop
us. If an adult was looking for one particular child, they would simply locate
the wolf pack and shout up the stairs to come down. The whole wide world was
ours to command.
I can’t imagine living this freely now. It seems like a
dream.
The best part though were our family holiday dinners.
Because there were so many of us, we needed two tables for
our holiday meals. The adults sat at the long main table with the candles and
the wine, and the kids and any misbehaving teens or adults sat at a kiddie
table with our knees pretty much at chin level. Once I got over myself being
all grown up, I preferred to sit at the kiddie table because we could misbehave
and have the most fun.
I distinctly remember sticking colossal black olives on the
ends of my fingers when I was eight and giving the kiddie table a puppet show.
I remember challenging everyone to spell “Mississippi” backwards and earning an
adult table reprimand when my favorite cousin Jaybird tried doing it through a mouthful
of stuffing until he choked before spewing breadcrumb chunks across the room. I
observed the Great Cranberry Sauce Debate over whether Ocean Spray jellied
straight out of the can or homemade whole berry sauce was better. Harsh and unforgivable
words were exchanged by both sides. My grandfather finally settled the dispute like King Solomon by ordering that going forward both versions would be served.
In my rebellious twenties, I stirred the pot by returning
from Texas with a recipe for cornbread dressing. I gave that recipe my best
shot, but I clearly lost the battle to our traditional Pepperidge Farm stuffing
in a howling defeat that sent me back to the kiddie table where I endured
subsequent can-you-believe-Martha-did-that shaming for decades.
And yet, for all the guff I had to put up with, I wouldn’t
trade these memories for the moon. These are the people who taught me the value
of stories, and for that I am truly thankful.
What are your favorite holiday dinner memories and stories?
How deeply do they go? Did these stories help make you who you are today?
