The Toaster Oven Thanksgiving

 

Jordan at her table

Late last night, I scrolled through Facebook, amazed at the number of people who, celebrating alone because of covid, nonetheless had the traditional meal, set a fine table for themselves. Oh sure, corners were cut—one picture showed a frozen turkey dinner, but a nice place setting; several who were feeding one or two opted for a turkey breast; one woman said they just served gravy out of the skillet. But this adherence to tradition, in whatever form it took, speaks of an optimism to me, a belief that Thanksgiving next year will be better, that we will be with our families again. I love seeing that attitude during the weirdness that was Thanksgiving 2020.

I also read about people who couldn’t put food on their family table. One Fort Worth suburb gave out 800 meals yesterday. I’m sure similar stories are told across the country—the stock market may be doing well, but people at the other end of the economic spectrum are suffering. Yesterday was also a national day of mourning for indigenous people, a fitting contradiction to the happy story we were told as children about the Pilgrims and the Indians sharing a feast. The native people came out on the bad end of that deal and still do. I shared on my page a moving picture of a home on a northern reservation, cardboard fastened on all the exterior walls to serve as insulation. In the midst of plenty, we must remember all those less fortunate.

We had a bountiful feast at our house/compound, despite a few glitches. We were supposed to be in Austin, where all seventeen of us would gather to celebrate in Megan’s new house. That didn’t happen because we followed safety guidelines. All the families had dinner at their home, with no more than six people. We had just the four of us who always eat dinner together. But Jordan pulled out all the stops to make it as festive as possible.

She set an absolutely gorgeous table, using the Golden Grapevine china that my mother and my aunt had chosen for me when I was far too young to care about china. It belongs to Jordan now, who puts it to better use than I ever did. She used gold chargers, Italian wine glasses embossed with gold, and the gold-washed flatware. (No, she has not been influenced by Donald trump’s penchant for gilt—this was tasteful and elegant.)

We started with happy hour on the front porch. Jean joined us, at a socially correct distance, but to my delight she brought northern white bread dressing. We had Jordan’s cheeseball, a family tradition, and a chutney spread I like—only this year I made it with cranberry chutney. Lots of laughter and fun, but we couldn’t convince Jean to stay for dinner. She had her own dinner for one all planned—and covid kept her from joining us at the table. She feared both getting it and giving it.

For dinner, we had turkey, which Christian cooked in his air fryer, mashed potatoes (which Jordan forgot until we were all seated and had said grace. I think it was Jacob who said, “Something’s missing.”) But there was mac and cheese (Christian’s mom’s recipe) and green bean casserole and fresh rolls and real butter (the latter is important to me). And there was dressing—northern white bread dressing that Jean brought. Jordan and Christian have always known cornbread dressing, but, darn! They liked the northern style (I thought I’d get it all to myself.)

Putting that feast on the table was more problematic than usual, because the oven in the main house was out—and the repairman can’t come until next Tuesday. It literally was a toaster oven holiday. Jordan cooked the mac and cheese in the toaster oven in the cottage; the mashed potatoes were in the crockpot; the green beans cooked in their toaster oven, and the dressing re-warmed there. Jordan even went across the street to use a neighbor’s oven for Jacob’s beloved yellow cake—the neighbors had gone off to a Thanksgiving celebration. I call that real neighborliness!

Just as I admire those who had a traditional meal all alone, I admire Jordan’s determination to keep the spirit of a holiday. She might easily have said, “Oh, it’s just us. Let’s just eat around the coffee table in the cottage like we always do.” But she made it special, a holiday, a celebration. A sign of optimism and hope.