Of all the holidays, a few of which are aggravating, Thanksgiving is the best. There’s no frantic shopping for gifts and nothing to wrap. I don’t have to stay up until midnight for Christmas Eve Mass or to ring in the New Year. (It’s midnight in New York, so let’s just call it a day and go home, eh?) There’s no blazing heat, no mosquitos and I don’t have to worry about Baxter freaking out over firecrackers. The goals are getting together with family, stuffing ourselves, and waiting for the conversation to deteriorate into the absurd. Politics and religion are off limits; bodily functions and barely credible stories are expected.

Peg and I have developed a routine after 20 years together. I hate the last-minute scramble for staples, so I compiled a shopping list that starts in October and runs through December. We start with non-perishables and frozen stuff: canned pumpkin, evaporated milk and cream of mushroom soup; the oft-maligned cranberry jelly, the kind that comes with rings; gelatin for the Thanksgiving eggnog mold and Jell-O for the Christmas black cherry mold; canned and frozen green beans, frozen corn, deep dish pie shells and those French-fried onions. For those of you who missed it, Dorcas Reilly, the woman who invented green bean casserole died October 15, 2018 at the ripe old age of 92.  Generations are forever in her debt.

Peg gets the perishables a week before the holiday, which includes cranberries, an orange, eggnog, onions, carrots, celery, sweet potatoes, rutabaga, biscuits in a can, and the turkey. I like flakey rolls and buttermilk biscuits for variety.

Peg’s sister Michele does the stuffing and the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever had. She used to do the rutabaga but it’s labor-intensive and Peg has more time now that she is, uh, “retired.” (We won’t talk about how a certain man of the cloth is a lying sack of shit.)

Thanksgiving is working out well this year. I’m working on Thursday while the nephews do dinner with their respective in-laws, so we’re celebrating on Friday. Peg has time to leisurely make pumpkin bread, bake and mash the sweet potatoes and make fresh cranberry relish, and I’m not underfoot. This year the turkey thawed out in record time, so we cooked it on Sunday and portioned it into freezer bags for people to take home. That’s a lot easier than doing it after an exhausting day of cooking and cleaning.

Thanksgiving morning follows a familiar pattern. I get up, make a batch of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in a can and turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. That is until last year when it became a non-stop ad for NBC programming and stars. So this year we’re going to record WGN’s coverage of “Chicago’s Grand Holiday Tradition,”  the Uncle Dan’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, sponsored in the past by Marshall Fields, Brach’s Confections, McDonald’s and Target.

Peg starts to harangue me about getting the turkey into the oven around 11:30 or so. “It’s not going to be done on time and I’m going to be really pissed!”

“How many years have I done this and how many times has it not been ready? Several and never.”

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

There’s still a lot to do, like prep the green bean casserole which goes into the oven as soon as the turkey comes out. We’ll haul out the plates and silverware, get out the champagne glasses and good napkins, and make sure the Finicky One (you know who you are!) has several forks so as not to cross-contaminate her food. Just before everyone starts to arrive, Peg makes a holiday punch with cranberry and pomegranate juice, frozen raspberries and something fizzy, which everyone is free to enjoy with or without alcohol.

The family arrives at our house mid-afternoon and gathers around the kitchen for punch and snacks. It’s all fun and games until the turkey comes out of the oven. Peg gets testy and everyone has learned: get out of the kitchen and no one gets hurt. Not that I’m a paragon of patience. I once chased my ex-mother-in-law out of the kitchen with a meat cleaver.

The casserole goes into the oven while the turkey rests, like it has nothing better to do while we work. I start filling cookie sheets with rolls while Peg makes gravy. We’re fine as long as I stay out of the way. Casserole out, rolls in for 15 minutes and we’re done.

Food goes to the table and everyone sits down. We say the traditional Catholic grace, the words to which I still haven’t learned. “Bless us O Lord…” mumble “…these gifts…” mumble “…thy bounty…” mumble “…In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost (or is it Spirit?) Amen.”

Then we start passing food around the table.

“No, clockwise! You’re messing up the flow!”

“Guys, don’t start eating just because you filled your plate! Keep passing.”

“Where’s the butter?”

“It’s right in front of you!”

“Can you pass Dave another roll? No, don’t you DARE throw it!” *Challenge accepted*

“Do NOT let that champagne cork go flying!” (Moi?)

Then we go around the table telling everyone what we are thankful for, though the guys’ priority is food. In the past there’s been an awkward silence, but Bob now volunteers to go first, having grown up and learned the importance of tradition. There are variations on the theme of family, spouses and gainful employment.  We’ll toast the memories of Peg and Michele’s mother and father, Gloria and Mike.

Michele’s daughters-in-law are wonderful young women and the girls she never had. A few years back she talked about how thankful she was for them and started crying. We were all sitting there reverently until her son Christopher started giggling. He might have been nervous over the show of genuine affection. Or maybe he was just being a dick. Well, that killed the Hallmark moment. I started snickering, and the rest of table erupted.

“Nice going, Chris!” more giggling

Table talk is predictable. The women will chat about whatever while the guys stuff their faces and look at the clock, anticipating the next football game. Sometimes Chris will launch into a long-winded tale with just a hint of truth embedded somewhere.  Smart phones are off limits until after we’ve eaten.

Dinner ends and most of us help clear the table (again, you know who you are!). Leftovers go into storage bags, then out on the deck to cool. Peg begins her cleanup and we all stay clear. “I have a system for doing this and you’re just getting in the way. If you want to be helpful, go sit down!” Needing no further encouragement, the menfolk head for the couch to watch part of the game before becoming comatose. The women sit around the table and talk. Baxter and I have had enough togetherness for awhile and retreat upstairs for a short nap.

The years have provided us with memories of holiday dinners past, some more endearing than others:

• I played Harry Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song” in the middle of dinner and we re-enacted the dinner scene from Beetlejuice.
• A much younger Bob laughed so hard he puked into his plate, ending Thanksgiving dinner.
• I forgot to put sugar into the pumpkin pie mix. I couldn’t understand why the pies were greyish brown instead of that deep golden color. I took a bite and said, “It’s not so bad.” Everyone else called bullshit and remind me of it every year.
• I flambéd the eggnog mold with Bacardi 151. (“Oh my God, you’re going to burn the house down!”)

So, enjoy the holiday. Be thankful for what you have.  Cherish the moments with family because they won’t be around forever.

And skip Black Friday. No deal is THAT good.

© Can Stock Photo / terifrancis