Strange, I don’t remember to many Thanksgivings from my childhood, those memories have faded away, probably for the good. I think the first Thanksgiving I remember was the year I met my husband. My Father had this idea to cook Thanksgiving dinner for all the women in this group he belonged too, including John’s mother. Somehow it ended up at their house, I think. It was the first of many such Thanksgiving dinners, and I was glad when I didn’t have to attend them anymore. Thanksgiving was a mess back then.
I also remember the first Thanksgiving dinner I cooked. It was a mess too. I put the turkey in and then started everything else. You know what happened, everything else got done a LONG time before that turkey did. Worse, my father was there to witness it, and of course tried to take over, since he was the chef and I was … well unqualified. We argued and I spend an hour or so in the bathroom crying.
Fast forward a few years and John and I were in San Antonio Texas in a little (tiny) apartment. I went to the commissary to get a turkey, but all they had were giant ones. I got one anyway, and John invited some people over and I invited some, and we ended up with a nice crowd, and a great dinner and wonderful memories. Some people ate on the floor, since we only had a few chairs, but no one complained.
Few more years forward, 1981 to be exact, it was Thanksgiving morning I allowed myself to admit that I might be pregnant. I shared that information with my neighbor Nora as she mashed the potatoes for our combined family dinner. I hadn’t even told John yet, I was afraid to. The next day it was confirmed, and our lives changed forever. And our Thanksgivings too. All of a sudden I really had something to be thankful for, a family.