Memories of My Mother on Thanksgiving

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Memories of My Mother on Thanksgiving

I feel grief for the death of my mother in waves. One of those days on which this grief feels most fresh and real is Thanksgiving.

Grief is not limited to some finite period—there is no defined beginning or end. Grief is abstract and unceasing. Grief ebbs and flows, but it does not end.

I feel grief for the death of my mother in waves. There are stretches—days, weeks—during which I rarely consider her absence. There are stretches—days, weeks, months, years—during which her absence feels as fresh and real as it felt during the days and weeks and months subsequent her death. One of those days on which this grief feels most fresh and real is Thanksgiving.

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Thanksgiving was my mother's favourite meal. It was her favourite meal to eat, but more crucially, it was her favourite meal to cook for others. Our house was small—one floor, six rooms—and our family was big. Each Thanksgiving, our family, which consisted of my mother, father, older brother, and myself, would host my mother's side: her five siblings, their spouses, and all 12 of their children.

We'd pack ourselves into the 500 square feet of our kitchen and living room and watch in awe as my mother went to work on turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes and homemade cranberry sauce and cookies and pies. Our little prefabricated ranch north of Boston was cramped when there were just four of us occupying its space. On Thanksgiving, that number swelled to more than 20—it's a wonder the family shih tzu, hilariously named Mink because she resembled a mink stole, was not trampled underfoot.

Each year, it feels like something's missing.

My mother was funny, and her brand of humour mixed the silly with the absurd. (When her youngest sister's kids were still very young, my mother would babysit them dressed in drag. She'd put her hair in a bun, cover it all with a scally cap, sport a pair of aviators, and paint a mustache above her upper lip. It took my young cousins several years to realise they didn't actually have an uncle Joey.) This playfulness was a way of life for my mother, but she accentuated it while hosting Thanksgiving. Twenty-pound raw turkeys make for great prop comedy.

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Before seasoning the bird, before stuffing the bird, and before popping the bird into the oven, my mother would hook her hands beneath its wings and chase me and my brother and our cousins around those 500 cramped square feet. She'd frantically flap the wings up and down and gobble a gobble that was less a gobble and more the sound of a hellhound. We'd flee from her—half gleeful because we were in on the joke, half fearful because we were convinced we'd be consumed by the raw, pink, pockmarked bird carcass. We were also convinced that my mother—who was auntie Judy to my cousins—might be a poultry witch.

I'm told this gag began before I was old enough to understand what was going on, and it endured until my cousins and I entered our petulant teenage years. Little by little and year by year, we grew disinterested with the act. We were too old for kid stuff, we were too cool for all that.

My mother understood what was happening, but she wasn't done with her joke (it was too good to abandon) and she wasn't ready to face that period every parent faces when their children no longer seem to want to spend much time with them, let alone laugh at their silly jokes. She did her best to rebel against time—she continued to terrorise us with the pale pink bird through our middle school years, even when it was clear we no longer found the joke amusing. But by the time I was a freshman in high school she'd abandoned her act—one can only give so much without getting anything in return.

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If only we knew what were to come.

When I was a junior in high school, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was advanced—it had spread to her liver and to her brain—and despite my naiveté, there was no chance she was going to lick it. My mother began radiation and chemotherapy soon after her diagnosis in the winter of 2002. Due to the treatment, she was too weak to play host that Thanksgiving; the cancer made sure she wouldn't see the one after that.

Our family Thanksgiving celebrations take place at my aunt Lisa's home now, which is fitting because it was there that my mother invented the now infamous uncle Joey. My aunt is a lovely woman, a gracious host, and a damn good cook. And yet, each year it feels like something's missing.

I loved watching my mother cook. She was good at it, and she took a deep satisfaction in knowing she was nourishing the ones she loved.

Sure, I miss the meal my mother cooked. The mashed potatoes were simple, but they tasted better than any other mashed potatoes I'd ever eaten. The gravy was simple, but my mother used the beast's neck bone when preparing it, so it was richer and had more depth than any gravy I'd ever eaten. The apple pie tasted like you imagine apple pie tasted in diners in the 1950s.

I loved watching my mother pan-fry the giblets with olive oil and red pepper flakes, and even if it disgusted me a little, I loved watching her delight in eating the organ meat as a pre-meal treat. (My mother's affinity for those bloody bagged bits must explain the love affair I've developed with offal in my adulthood.) I loved watching my mother cook, period. She was good at it; she did so with grace and without vanity; she took a deep satisfaction in knowing she was nourishing the ones she loved.

More than the food, I miss being chased around that cramped house by a gobbling lunatic wielding a raw turkey, someone who I didn't realise was as deeply funny as she was until it was too late to let her know how much I appreciated it. Whenever I think back to those early Thanksgiving celebrations, I'm struck with a tinge of guilt: how could I have tired of this gag? How was there a time when I didn't find this funny?

At 13, I thought I was too cool to let my mother know how funny she was. At 31, it's the one thing I wish I could do the most. If only I knew what were to come.