Grandma Ellie’s Thanksgiving feasts were legendary. Most ended with the whole family passed out due to tryptophan and excessively happy taste buds. A couple ended with cousins not talking to each other for daring to back the team that defeated theirs, but they usually got over it before the next game of the season aired. One memorable year gets its story retold every year as we gather together to commiserate as we long for Grandma Ellie and her many talents.
As a newly minted teenager, my thirteenth birthday fell three days before Thanksgiving that year. That might be why I determined to be as difficult as possible that Thursday. My mother’s continued encouragement to get ready to go to grandma’s house fell on stubbornly deaf ears. When my dad finally intervened, he ended up lifting me from the comfortable nest of blankets on my bed and throwing me over his shoulder.
“You’re not too old to spank, you know?” He asked as he gave me a firm spank on the bottom to make his point.
“Yes, daddy,” I agreed but the petulance crept out and earned me an extra spank for good measure.
Those were the last words out of my mouth until I stepped past Grandma Ellie’s front door with its peeling white paint and faded fall wreath. Then the warm scents of love laced with roasting turkey, savory herbs, and, most importantly, every little nuance of pumpkin spice. Those memories make me understand how that scent took over many a millennial heart every fall years later. It certainly softened my pre-millennial heart. Had that not melted a little of my teenage angst, being wrapped in my grandmother’s arms would have turned me into the butter necessary to begin a good roux.
She settled me in at the counter-height table with a healthy slice of pie and everything else faded away for the next three hours. I didn’t shy away from my mom smooching me on the cheek though she abused the privilege and kept coming back for more. I even let my younger cousins braid my hair. I regretted it later when I had to brush out burgeoning dreadlocks.
The highest praise of my grandmother’s magic touch lay in my polite and almost witty conversation at dinner. My mother beamed proudly at me over platters heaped with every dish anyone ever longed to see on the Thanksgiving table. We ate our fill. Then we nibbled some more. Then we watched some old family footage until we had just enough room for the coup de grace.
My grandmother’s pies were pure perfection. From the flakey, buttery crust to the smooth filling just sweet enough to make the spices pop, to the homemade whipped cream that contained the secret to happiness, no one could pass up a piece. Even Aunt Mel happily devoured at least one piece knowing full well the cinnamon would turn her into a rashy, red, itchy beast.
But no one loved Grandma Ellie’s pie like her two boys. If Uncle Fred ate three pieces, so did Uncle Ted. If Uncle Ted asked for another dollop of whipped cream, Uncle Fred insisted he needed two.
Disaster would have been averted if Uncle Ted and Aunt Mel’s daughter Viv hadn’t been the only child old enough to bring a sweetheart home for the holidays. Or if I hadn’t already enjoyed a slice upon arrival. But however it came to pass, the last pie produced an uneven number of slices. And neither of my uncles was going to be the bigger man—not in that way.
“I’m the oldest. It’s mine,” Ted declared with certainty.
Fred grinned wolfishly and his eyes focused on Viv’s boyfriend, who was still nibbling away at his piece. “I’d say you already had yours, big brother.”
He reached for the pie then, but Ted knocked his hand away. “Mine!” He roared.
At this moment my tiny grandmother stepped between her two tall sons and snatched up the plate. “I shall just cut this piece in half,” she paused to give each of them a disapproving look, “and you can share it like civilized human beings.”
“Yes, mother,” they both demurred with downcast eyes, but even while they both counted floor tiles, the challenge in both sets of eyes remained obvious.
They spent the rest of that holiday and every one that followed looking for moments to challenge each other where their mother couldn’t intervene. One year, they arm wrestled while grandma put finishing touches on the turkey. Fred won a broken nose. The following year, they stumbled outside to play basketball while the rest of us drowsed. Again, neither of them won since they both ended up with sprained wrists. The injuries became as much a family tradition as our shared pie addiction.
Grandma chided them each time they hurt themselves or each other. But the hijinks didn’t stop. Over time, they even got bolder and initiated staring contests and other foolishness in front of Grandma Ellie. She began carrying a spatula around for the express purpose of whacking the foolishness out of her sons. Even she knew it was a hopeless cause but I think she enjoyed the sounds they made when she snuck up on them for a little discipline.
When Grandma Ellie passed away some years later, everyone accepted her distribution of her few earthly assets with more magnanimous decorum than the verdict over that last piece of pie. Of course, had they realized she bequeathed her recipe for that pie to me over years of learning at the rolling pin of the master, that life event might have echoed the story I just relayed. I think my mother has guessed my secret, but everyone else still maintains that no one bakes a pie like Grandma Ellie. (Oh, and I invite Ted and Fred on alternating years. I could never get by with whapping either of them with a spatula.)
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Hope you are preparing for a fabulous turkey day, surrounded by loved ones and enough whipped cream for the perfect pumpkin pie. And if you could send some positive energy for me to catch up on my National Novel Writing Month word count, that would be awesome.
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