It’s almost New Year’s Eve, but I’ve been thinking about the holiday season…when I was younger. Thanksgiving was just a few short weeks ago, but it was always my dad’s day to shine.
He was an amazing cook, philosopher, and mentor. I miss that day when a few family members gathered to celebrate his spread—usually me, my brother, one of our friends, and a few neighboring aunts, uncles, and cousins who didn’t have plans. Dad would stand back with a pleased grin knowing that he was the star of the day. He would prepare for hours, I would fuss with my horse or the dog, and my brother would cut wood or endure some chore that dad had waiting for him.
Christmas was split between my mother and father. My mother remarried when I was in elementary school. I would start my vacation with my dad who lived in a rural setting among fields of cotton, corn, soybeans, and fewer tobacco fields than there once were. Mom lived five miles from him in the suburbs. A few days before Christmas, he and I would head to the woods on his property and find a tree to cut and adorn with his 50’s collection of large lights with peeling paint, huge ornaments, and silver tinsel. On Christmas Eve, I would head back to my mom’s house where she and my stepfather would have a huge party—a revolving door of family, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, my stepfather’s grandkids, neighbors, and several other characters. I spent the night and woke up to Santa’s bounty. Then I would head back to my dad’s lonely house in the country. The vibe was always more subdued. He would whip up a quick feast, and we would play a game of Scrabble or a few rounds of Checkers where he’d win every time and later watch pre-cable tv.
It was difficult dividing my time between mom and dad every year growing up, and that would seep into my psyche where I would feel this void since—hard to explain and even harder to slough off as years went on. These days, I love to trim the tree and decorate. I am guilty of leaving the tree up well into February—extending the holiday cheer during the darkest time of year.
One regret: I wish I had taken photos of my dad’s dinners or his process from cast-iron pan to table and even garden to table. In the summer, we would count how many items came from the garden before we’d sit down to eat. To document him preparing spoon biscuits or cornbread fritters or placing that last dish on his long table made of rough boards nailed together, would have been a treasure. I always had my camera in hand but didn’t think of taking photos in the kitchen. If only I had a photo of his perfectly crusted chicken frying in a pool of lard in that heavily blackened cast-iron pan. If only. We just didn’t take photos of food like we do now. I guess you could say that of selfies, but I have plenty of selfies I took of me and dad’s pitbull dog, Tigger.
After college, I moved to Washington DC and would drive south every year for the holidays. I followed the same schedule as I had done so many years before. Once I moved to San Diego six years later, I couldn’t make it back to North Carolina every year. I married. I enjoyed new traditions that my first husband had begun on his own since he, too, was far from his home state. We would pack up the Jeep with bags and dogs and venture to northern California. Our first year together, we had Thanksgiving dinner at a hotel buffet in Palm Springs and later drove to Las Vegas, which was, for me, the most unlikely way to spend the holiday, but I enjoyed those trips—each year a different excursion.
Nowadays and the second time around, traditions remain strong with my husband of five years as he visits his family in Massachusetts, and sometimes I attend. But this year he stayed home with me for Thanksgiving day, which appeased my introverted nature. He ran in a turkey trot, and I happily made the formidable feast.
My dad is gone, and my mother lives in an assisted-living facility. Memories of the holidays in eastern North Carolina seem to fade. It’s been years since my brother, who lives in New Hampshire, and I have spent the holidays together—our paths don’t cross very often, although not intentional. Maybe my husband’s family, and mine, will visit in years to come. The more the merrier, and I love to host. I’ve found that creating new traditions involves group participation and crossing of fingers. Holidays are often set in stone with many folks, and all the planning in the world can lead to disappointment if expectations are set too high, but with every new year, I’m optimistic that I can plan an occasion without too much expectation. I mean, who has the perfect Thanksgiving anymore? Or birthday? Or anniversary?
Aside from holiday expectations, I do have professional hopes and aspirations for the new year that only I can make happen. I’m going to focus on that with self-encouragement and determination and let new traditions fall into place.
the foodie and the dog 