I have really come to dread the holidays, especially what we know as the “holiday season, which for me really runs from Halloween until Valentine’s Day. That’s because Laura loved candy, so the holidays began on a candy holiday and ended on a candy holiday. If Easter came early during a particular year, then the holiday season ran through Easter.
I imagine Christmas is the worst, but that’s hard for me to say – Thanksgiving ranks pretty high up there. Although I grew up in a small, tight-knit family, we always had enjoyable Thanksgivings together and had them every year until Laura and I moved away to South Florida in 1995 (which, coincidentally, was the year my maternal grandmother – Gertrude – passed away and got this negative ball rolling). So, for my first 30 years, I had happy, tranquil, normal, family-style Thanksgivings. For the next 22 (minus one that I spent with my mom, aunt, and uncle in Alabama in 2002), it was just me and Laura and whatever gaggle of cats we had at the time. Most of the time, we had them at home. We had one great one the year we spent Thanksgiving in North Platte (Nebraska) because a friend of mine who worked at the newspaper that I was news editor of, the late, great Frank L. Graham, was interested in learning how to cook, so we started with the greatest meal of all – Thanksgiving. For the next few years after Laura and I moved away, Frank and I would always make a call to each other on Thanksgiving – sometimes it was our only call of the year – and talk about how the meal went.
As a trained chef, I have always considered Thanksgiving to be my Super Bowl, and I always make a special effort to make sure it turns out right. Once I learned about the secret of brining in 2000, we never, ever had a dry bird again. I experimented with different types of stuffing – Laura had this think about oyster stuffing, but we could never get fresh oysters or Lynnhaven oysters, and it just never turned out right. I finally settled on a pork sausage stuffing that is just as good as any oyster stuffing. I experimented with other sides, sometimes making the green bean casserole, sometimes deconstructing it, sometimes making something completely different. Mashed potatoes and gravy are constants, as is homemade cranberry sauce (“none of that canned shit,” as Laura would say). Of course, a homemade pumpkin pie.
Most of the time, we just had Thanksgiving at home. Once we moved to Virginia, however, we had the occasion to sometimes spend Thanksgiving with Laura’s family, which consisted of Laura’s mother, stepfather, two sisters, whatever husband the youngest sister had at the time and one or more of her two sons. Sometimes, the older sister would bring a boyfriend with her. We probably had four or five Thanksgivings at the Carlson household and, of course, my only role was as chef. If not for that role, I might as well have not been there. This scene was repeated more often at Christmas and occasional birthday and summer parties as well. After Laura’s death, I have come to find out I was really nothing more than a caretaker in their eyes. This is evidenced by the fact that I have not spoken to Laura’s mother – despite several attempts on my part – since we scattered her lashes in July 2019. I have not spoken to any member of her family since the issue of our condo was settled last October. Oh well.
So, I digressed. I can’t wait for this not to hurt so damn much. I thought it would start by now, but it’s not. I still think about her just about as often every day as I did soon after her death. I’ve even started dreaming about her. And I’m the type of person who doesn’t remember dreams. I’m just dreading the next few weeks, especially as bad as the past few weeks and months and years (for me anyway) have been. Thanksgiving used to be so much fun. I would wake up and start prepping dinner. When I got a break, I would put on “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” and listen for a while doing some more prep. Then, I would sit down for 22 minutes and watch the funniest holiday episode of television ever made, the “Turkey’s Away” episode of “WKRP in Cincinnati.” Then, either football would be playing or music would be going on in the background while dinner progressed to the finish. Then, once the dishes were put away and the refrigerator was restocked, we would cuddle and watch “Plains, Trains and Automobiles,” my choice as the funniest holiday movie ever. A perfect day that I no longer get to have. Especially with all the members of my tight-knit family all gone as well.
I’ll still make dinner. I’ll still listen to “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree.” I’ll still watch “Turkey’s Away.” I’ll still listen to music (although it may end up being the music that accompanies the video montage that I made of Laura for her celebration of life). I’ll eat dinner with a friend who is stopping by that day – as well as my four feline friends. And I’ll still watch “Planes, Trains and Automobiles.” However, it won’t be the same. It can’t be. It never will be.
The Journalism Gypsy 