Thanksgiving Memories

In her first-grade class last year my granddaughter made a list of what she was thankful for - After some thought Violet Pearl wrote this...

1. My family  

2. Our Presidents

3. Jesus

 4. Cats

This sort of summed it up for me too.  And I thought of Thanksgiving many years ago...

...The days were shorter…my heater came on today.  I wondered if there would be frost tonight.  And I thought about Thanksgiving with my Aunt Mary and her son Louis.  I can see their long driveway that led to a little white house in Vineland…and Aunt Mary was little too – she was my grandfather’s younger sister and as round as she was tall.  She wasn’t more than 4 and a half feet tall.  And even though born in Brooklyn 65 years ago she still spoke with a strong Italian accent.  (Her father, Sebastian, had emigrated from Rome to Brooklyn and then moved to Vineland, to work on a truck farm. Work he did in the old country.  He joined many other immigrants who spoke his language and understood his ways.)

One of my family traditions was to spend most holidays with my mother’s side of the family, Aunt Mary and her bachelor son Louis.  And I suspected that the main reason was that she was a great cook.  “I make everything like in the old country,” she told me this many times.  But I am ahead of myself.  I had a tradition too.  The day before each feast I would take the bus 10 miles to “assist” Aunt Mary make her our special dinner.  And homemade raviolis were her speciality and on every menu.  I asked her once why we always made only one hundred and ten pieces, and she replied that she rolled out the dough to fit on her porcelain topped table - when cut it made that many pieces each time.  Her kitchen was small and always had a trace of garlic in the air.  The preparations for her dinner had started the day before I arrived.   Her incredible “gravy” had been quietly simmering on the stove for about 24 hours - the fresh plum tomatoes cooked down and marinating with pieces of sausage, pork and her “secret” spices.  Aunt Mary’s had cousins in Switzerland and Italy who mailed magic seasonings several times a year.   This wasn’t cooking, it was a family ritual handed down through many generations. I rolled up my sleeves and we began.  Aunt Mary dusted the table with flour and then kneaded a dough ball the size of a basketball with her hands in an ancient ceramic bowl.  She plopped it on the table with a loud thud – and the job I waited a long time for came next.  Using a large rolling pin, I spread the dough out to the corners of the table into a thin four-foot square.  I would take great pains  as Aunt Mary hovered behind me saying, “Calvin make it thin, make it all very thin.”  (Actually, she said, tin rather than thin - her English faltered sometimes).  When I finished my arms ached - but this was a welcomed price to pay.   Next, Aunt Mary spread the filling on half of the dough,  a combination of spinach, hand ground beef and pork mixed with the ragot cheese as she called it.  Next she carefully folded the dough over.  This took a very experienced hand.  My “second best” job was next.  I got to make the little pockets with a serrated wheel on a handle that turned the dough into ravioli.  This whole process took most of our afternoon.  After we finished, Aunt Mary made me a cup of tea and gave me some cookies before I caught the 5:05 for home.   I could not wait until tomorrow when I would brag about how “I made the pasta.”  All 110 pieces.  I did the math on the bus trip and figured that each of us got about 20 each – and we usually didn’t have any leftovers.   Plus, there would be the turkey turned to a golden brown in her ancient oven.  And my favorite dessert ever – “orange icebox cake”. This was a concoction that I have only had at Aunt Mary’s and never since.  I think she invented it.  Its basic ingredient was “ladyfinger cookies, store bought” as she would say.  Cookies with a tangy orange custard – no matter how full I was there was always room for two bowls of it.

Thanksgiving Day came and I watched the Macy’s famous parade in living black and white on our new and bigger 12” Admiral.  I had never been to a Macy’s store - but I imagined it had to be a great place if it could have a two-hour parade on TV.  I dressed in my “Sunday School outfit” (my mother insisted that I “dress up” on holidays).  And we made our pilgrimage to Vineland and our afternoon celebration.  We filled the small living room (dining room) with its big round table. Louis brought up folding chairs from the basement and insisted that he and Aunt Mary use them – “You are guests”, he always said.  Dinner was laid on the table immediately.  I then had to say the blessing (which I always hated to do but…)  After our moment of thanks, the passing of giant bowls and tasting began.  My mother would say, as she did each year, that the pasta was the “best” ever – “Aunt Mary, you outdid yourself this year.”   Aunt Mary always waved off this compliment and worried out loud “I hope the turkey not too dry”. There was very little chatter as we dug into the feast.  Louis never said anything unless asked a question.  He was a middle aged, lifelong bachelor who had spent his adult life, after returning from World War II, caring for his widowed mother – he was a good Italian son and a very quiet man.  In all my years, I had never heard him say more than 10 to 15 words per holiday.  Mostly “how are you and goodbye, happy Thanksgiving”.  He had a look of sadness – the look of a man who had resigned himself to his duty but wishing there had been more. But Aunt Mary depended on him.   I would smile when she would instruct him to “make the light once” or “Louis, I feel a draft” which was her cue for him to turn up the thermostat.  Aunt Mary lived into her late 80’s in that small cottage and was soon to stop asking things from Louis.  Our holidays with her stopped.  She spent the last five years of her life sitting quietly with her memories in a straight-backed chair with a knitted shawl on her shoulders.

After dinner, I was always so full I could hardly move.  As I did every visit, I asked cousin Louis if I could see some more of his Life Magazines. Louis had collected every issue of Life since it began publishing.  He had them in neat year by year stacks in the basement on shelves with curtains to keep out the dust.  Louis brought up a stack of magazines.  Somehow he seemed to remember which editions I had seen on my last visit.  I flipped page after page of this weekly history of life in pictures until it was time to go home, fascinated by their content.  As we started to say our goodbyes, Louis neatly gathered up the magazines as if they were first editions of great literary works and returned them to their resting place.  (When Aunt Mary passed away he moved to a rented room and deposited his entire collection in a dumpster – I was devastated.  When I scolded him about this great loss he just smiled and in his quiet way said, “Oh well…it was time…”)

Aunt Mary's ravioli – turkey - orange icebox cake – and the history of the world in pictures, that was my Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter for me for years.  And the menu never changed.  Many holidays have rolled by since going to Vineland.  Aunt Mary and Louis are gone now.  And I have spent many holidays in fine and famous eateries – and yet I still yearn for one more homemade ravioli dinner that I helped make… an old country holiday with those who gone now like the faces on the pages of treasured magazines.