THE OTHER RED HAT SOCIETY

On this day after the day after Thanksgiving, I've been sitting benumbed at my desk, still lethargic from repeated doses of turkey-feasting tryptophan, watching my favorite member of the Original Red Hat Society hang upside-down and eat. 

No, it isn't one of the middle-age neighbor ladies acting out while on a pumpkin pie suger high. I'm talking woodpeckers…pileated woodpeckers; females. Big ol' silly looking birds who were wearing red hats and feeding with much ado and gusto long before those women who sometimes take it upon themselves to suddenly invade your favorite country café, swiped the headgear idea for their own group. The upside-down hanging ORHS member in my yard is feeding on a suet block.

(Y'know, there is a rather remarkable resemblance…)

Anyway, I just want to write and say we have survived another Thanksgiving. Thanks to preplanning and prep work the day before, I didn't exhaust myself cooking this time around. We managed to forego the heady excitement of a kitchen fire this time, too. And there were no territorial squabbles in the kitchen, not even minor ones during the last hour when space becomes tight and the pace turns near-frantic as the bird comes out of the oven to rest under its foil tent, the dressing goes in, pies are readied, the green beans are stir-fried, potatoes mashed and gravy made. Even the dogs and guests behaved.

The menu: The centerpiece was a 22-lb bird, brined overnight, which I put in the oven at 9:30 a.m. and had ready three hours later. I also made cornbread and oyster dressing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, baked sweet potatoes, steamed brussel's sprouts, sautéd broccoli, green beans with ginger, garlic, and sesame seeds, creamed artichoke hearts, a fruit salad of cooked cranberries with bananas, oranges, pineapple, apple and grapes. Myladylove did pies—one apple, two pumpkin, one mincemeat. Plus we had various relishes, pickles, and cut veggies for munching. And of course, ice cream and whipped cream for pie topping.

I'm not kidding when I say that until we received word about 11 a.m. that Myladylove's son and his girlfriend were on their way, we actually were fixing everything above and figuring it would be just the two of us. And those side dishes were not in small amounts, either, but commensurate with the size of the turkey—based the notion we'd be able to feed, oh, two dozen or so hungry folks should they suddenly appear at the door. Not that such a crowd was possible, considering everyone was out of town except for the one son and his gal. 

But to both Myladylove and myself, part of the fun of the Thanksgiving table lies in its abundance…so a refrigerator stuffed to the gills for a week afterwards with leftovers in various bowls and boxes, is all part of the celebration's plan. 

That said, I wish we could always set our feast before a crowded table. I'd like to end the day with not a single morsel of leftover food. Such meals are always best shared…the more, the merrier. And there's nothing I'm more thankful for than family and friends. However, some years the logistics just don't work out. And in my case, the huge extended family I grew up in—grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins galore, inlaws and outlaws, and those familiar and welcome faces who surely belonged to some branch of the ancestral tree because they always showed up to eat—well…that joyous, laughing, wonderful throng has been too long gone to their eternal reward. What few third and fourth cousins remain are scattered to the far corners. Nor is the count much better among friends. Alas, I miss them with all my heart, and never more than during the holidays. 

But I don't want to end this post on that note because we had a great Thanksgiving. The food was excellent (if I do say so) and the company warm and loved and wonderful. As fine a day as we've enjoyed in a long time. Moon-the-Dog was here to share it, and the son and his lovely lady brought their Jack Russell, Snoopy. 

That's my report. Now, the ORHS pileated has just flapped off. I'm feeling something of turkey-and-dressing jones coming on. Myladylove will close her bank branch up in another fifteen minutes, and be home twenty minutes after that. I know she'll want lunch immediately. And she loves Thanksgiving leftovers almost as much as I do. 

Soooooo…one must strike fast when opportunity presents. There's just enough time for me to dash to the fridge, snatch a drumstick and a dab of oyster dressing and pop them in the microwave, gobble everything down, and then set about warming up an array of dishes for our leisurely meal together, while pretending like I haven't eaten since breakfast. Remember, mum's the word. 

And belatedly, though no less sincerely, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!       

———————

THANKSGIVING EVE…

Thanksgiving Eve. Just after 4:30 and though it's still afternoon by the clock, twilight has already all but claimed the day.

The white ducks have gone to bed downstream. I can just see them in their favorite sleeping spot between a graveled shallows and the exposed roots of a leaning sycamore. Any minute now the Canada geese will come winging upstream, talking to one another, heading to wherever it is they bivouac for the night.

I've been busy all day—busy all week, in fact—writing, finishing up the baking, doing every bit of prep work I can before tomorrow's big feast. The cottage is redolent with good smells. In a few minutes I'll put the turkey in the brine for its overnight soak. After that, I intend to build a fire on the hearth, cut myself a thick slice of the banana-walnut bread I baked last evening, and perhaps indulge with a glass of blackberry wine while I watch the last of the light fade from the western sky.

Tomorrow will be a day of celebration. A time to gather round the table with family and friends—those who still hold you dear in spite of your many faults. We'll hold hands and say grace from our hearts, and perhaps we'll then take another few moments to reflect about all the many blessing that have come our way these past months…for we are indeed so very grateful. Then, amid much talk and lots of laughter, we'll share one of the best meals of the entire year.

I hope tomorrow is for you a day of joy and delight, of love and warmth, and that you laugh much and eat lots. From the riverbank to you…

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

DIVINE IMAGE...OR SHOWER PEEPER?

It's been an exhausting couple of days. First there was Thanksgiving—the Roasting of the Bird, all twenty-two pounds of his fat, stuffed carcass, plus making oyster and non-oyster dressing (gotta please everyone), pumpkin pies, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberries (open can, dump contents, stir up so they don't look like the can) and everything else that goes onto our particular "classic feast" table. This year, we interrupted our cooking to partake of a medium-sized kitchen fire, when too much dressing overflowed too little baking dish and a sheet of flames four-feet high and oven-wide lashed out like an infuriated dragon, trying its best to burn the cottage down. While others in our midst leaped frantically about shrieking like lunatics, I calmly threw about two pounds of kosher salt on the base of the flames until the blaze was out, whereupon we all set to opening windows to allow the thick black smoke to exit the house and puzzle our neighbors. Moon the dog actually sat in the hall and sobbed—I've never in my life heard anything like it come from a dog. Obviously, we all handle distress in our own peculiar way. There is, however, nothing like a good kitchen fire to whet the appetite...and once the residual soot and salt aftermath had been cleaned up, we sat down to our groaning table, said a heartfelt grace, and ate with uncommon gusto. Guilt and blame for the fire, along with certain recriminations and threats, denials, and brief tantrums, and not a few smart-alec remarks peppered our mealtime conversation. All in all, a fine day of modest infamy and tasty turkey. Yesterday was, by comparison, quiet and more relaxed. A tiny amount of work gathering a stick or two of driftwood from the river's edge near the cottage; tossing a few stones up onto the bank for later building projects; dragging the first of the Christmas decorations from the attic; a bit of writing and puttering in my work room. Breakfast, which didn't occur until midmorning, and took place before the fireplace and a crackling blaze, was leftovers (better the second time around than the first!) as was a late-afternoon lunch (thirds tasting just as good!); supper was late and light, a bit of cheese and a glass of wine. Okay, two glasses of wine. Today I have crashed... No energy. No desire to do anything more than read, snooze, and emulate a member of the vegetable kingdom. And no, it wasn't all that turkey and leftovers, and those two glasses of wine...or maybe it was. But I'm content in my lassitude, at one with my torpor. Sometimes rest is as good a way to spend a day as any requiring busy vigor. On the other hand, my morning shower has taught me a necessary lesson—I herewith promise I'm never again going to doubt or make fun of those folks who claim see religious images in the most mundane objects and places. Indeed...I have joined their ranks. This very morning, as I finished my shower and, in my soapy, dripping nudity just happened to look down, I saw something—gremlin, imp, brownie, leprechaun, or soggy sprite, looking back at me from the wadded washcloth I'd tossed casually and with no artistic forethought, into the corner of the bathtub. Egads! After recovering from my initial shock, I plucked my cell phone from the nearby counter and took a shot. You tell me...is this Our Lady of the Washrag? The Terrycloth Troll? Divine, secular, good, evil, imagined, or pure kismet? Or have I simply been holed up in my riverbank cottage too long. I await your thoughtful replies. Meanwhile...a slice of pumpkin pie beckons.

TWO TROUT FOR THANKSGIVING

“I was just thinking how good a trout would taste, Sonny,” my father said, smiling at me from the other end of the laden kitchen table. We’d just finished our Thanksgiving meal—a huge, turkey-and-all-the-trimmings feast which could easily have accommodated three times as many people and still filled the refrigerator with leftovers afterwards. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last Thanksgiving I’d get to share with this wise and quirky man who loved the outdoors with thoughtful passion, and had spent countless hours rambling woods and fields, on lakes and streams, passing this love along to his only child. Dad loved God, family, nature, books, music, and shaping bits of wood into everything from guitars to benches to custom details in fine homes such as fitted cabinets or an exquisite spiral staircase. I’ve tried to embrace his values wholeheartedly, though I’m sadly deficient when it comes to woodworking skills; the best I can do is hammer together a deck or garden shed. A couple of years earlier, Dad had suffered a mild stroke. There didn’t seem to be any permanent damage afterwards, but he’d then begun having mini-strokes, and each one took a slight toll. During the last twenty-some months I’d watched my father age twenty years. From a robust seventy-three year old he’d become a faltering seventy-five…and the change was swift and heartbreaking. Several times during our holiday meal the talk had turned, as it often did, to fishing—fishing for bass, bluegill, walleye, catfish, crappie, and then when we got to reminiscing about fishing in Michigan, salmon and trout. I guess that’s what started my father to thinking—remembering those skillets of fresh-caught trout, fried in butter over an open campfire, the chill morning air redolent with woodsmoke and pines, rose-breasted grosbeaks whistling from nearby thickets and the tannin-stained stream burbling merrily along a dozen yards away. I remembered such times, too—and I knew we’d never get to reprise those wonderful adventures together. But I also knew I could give him a small part—literally a taste—by supplying a trout or two. And so, on that bittersweet Thanksgiving Day twenty-six years ago, I abruptly left the table and drove an hour north to one of the only genuine trout streams in Ohio. It was sunny, but cold and windy, a wintry November afternoon. But after I’d parked by the bridge, layered up in warm clothes and waders, rigged my fly rod, and begun following the faint streamside trail to the pool I intended to fish, I thought I just might have a chance. This isn’t a fishing tale, so I won’t go into details—except to say that after a half-hour of casting practice, I suddenly saw a trout swirl on the surface. Then another began to feed…and a third. I made my presentations, floated my flies past the hungry fish, and summarily caught two. I didn’t try for the third. Never take more than you need…and always leave something behind. My father taught me that, and it’s the cornerstone principal of good outdoor stewardship. I was back home in time for the supper encore of our dinner’s leftovers. In some ways, I enjoy these secondary meals more than the primary event. One feeds your hunger, though it comes with the excitement and pressure of having fussed about getting everything on the table just so and on time; the other is leisurely, laid-back, with ample time to savor—feeding both body and soul. Dad was pleased with the trout—a pair of silver-phase browns, plump and solid, fat from feeding on the stream’s prolific caddis. I promised I’d fix them for his lunch the following day—and he grinned at me and nodded. “I’d like that, Sonny.” I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend every moment of that long-ago last Thanksgiving Day with my father. But I tried to make up for it by spending every day with him thereafter I could…until that early June afternoon of the following spring when Dad suddenly passed away. In a way, though, Dad went with me on that Thanksgiving Day trout trip—just as he has accompanied me on every fishing trip of my life, and every outdoor ramble I make, whether it’s to gather mushrooms or pawpaws, explore a hill-country woods, watch birds, or pick up a sack of walnuts to feed backyard squirrels. My father taught me how to do all those things, and a thousand more. I miss him still. But his love and guidance remain as fresh in me today as if he were still sitting at the other end of that old kitchen table, smiling sweetly at me and telling me about the birds he saw at the feeder that morning, or a wildflower he’d recently spotted beside the road, or maybe reciting a line or two from James Whitcomb Riley about things a country boy understood. When I bow my head and say grace on Thanksgiving, my father is always one of the things I’m most grateful for…a blessing worth remembering. Happy Thanksgiving!