Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, but it is the one that also puts the biggest strain on my heart in recent years. It was always a big family holiday, and it is also near when my Dad suddenly died. My last Thanksgiving with Mom, in 1997, was only because I was in the Northwest dealing with my father's estate after his death in mid-November, and I couldn't get back to Texas to cook for my family. I called a neighbor, asked her to have them over for dinner, and I went down to Seattle and ate with my sister, brother, mother, and a few friends. Who knew that would be Mom's last? So I tell stories, all during the day, about when I was a kid and had to help with the dressing, how we did this and that and the other thing. I choose bowls or containers because they are part of the story, and I choose the foods because they are part of the story.
Christmas, that's much easier, it's money and decorations. We shop wisely and enjoy the day, but Thanksgiving, that was always the heart of my family's year. It still is, and as a parent I am handing it all down to my children. This year our best friend who we usually shared the holiday with has moved, and her children have scattered. We're pulling together the remnants, those who have never made other plans because Bette was always there with the meal. We move on, and this year, we'll tell stories about Bette's Thanksgiving dinners along with my mother's Thanksgiving dinners. It will be a nice meal, quieter, but nice.