Category Archives: Holidays

Thanksgivings Past

Holidays


[Grammy Nadeau, Mammy, and Terry]

The Wednesday nights
before Thanksgiving
were glorious
and full of some
of the most
memorable and
happy moments
I’ve ever known.

We were always so
frantically but
ecstatically happy
preparing for
our day of thanks.

My grandmother
Mammy would be
baking pies like
mincemeat,
rhubarb, cherry
and pumpkin.

My great grandmother
Grammy Nadeau
would rest quietly
in an old armchair
while I sat next to
her, reading the
newspaper aloud.

Mommy would play
records, and there
was always dancing.

And then came
the day of.

I would wake up
to the smell of
sauteed vegetables
and garlic.

We would roast
chestnuts in the
oven, and eat them
all day.

We cracked walnuts
and filberts with the
lobster cracker.

And no Thanksgiving
was complete without
Mammy’s famous
deviled eggs.

The turkey was
always the
crowned jewel.

Packed to capacity
with the most
heavenly stuffing.

But it was the love.

That big humongous
love that stretched
from Wednesday
through Thursday.

A love that I will
forever cherish
and recall.

What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?

Holidays, , ,

I recently had a weird dream that was all jumbled up, but I recall that the question shrouded me in regret and remorse:

What would you do if you weren’t afraid?

I jumped out of bed, grabbed my journal, and wrote it down.

Then I tossed and turned, asking myself the question over and over again.

It was a fitful night, and I finally gave up trying to sleep and began writing this blog post.

What would I do if I wasn’t afraid?

What would you do?

Rosh Hashanah, a time of repenting and forgiveness, begins at sundown tonight—Friday, September 18.

There it is—that number 18. It always manages to creep up and in, whenever I’m soul searching.

“The days of awe,” also known as the “ten days of repentance,” include Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and the days in between, during which time Jews reflect on how we cycle through the year, bring it to a close, and begin again.

I don’t know about you, but I could really use a new beginning.

In the old days, when I would attend Temple during the High Holy Days, I would recite the same prayers every year. Year after year, the same tedious prayers. But this year is like no other year.

In thinking about what has happened over the past twelve months, I am regretful that I ever thought the prayers were routine—or worse, boring.

So, I pulled out the prayers today. And yes, they’re the same old familiar prayers, but in a calming, rejuvenating way.

Like all of you, my circumstances have forever changed.

The past twelve months have brought and wrought a harrowing narrative coupled with a Groundhog Day corona-routine that has rocked my world.

I looked back in my journal to remind me of all the things that happened over my past twelve-month life. If only I could go back to a simpler, safer time. If only I could go back to twelve months ago.

Last September 18, I had a Me Too awakening that left me with a glorious sense of acceptance. Finally. And of course, it happened on the 18th.

In October, I drove with my husband to Manchester, Vermont, for a wedding. The wedding was terrific, but it was the hours of driving, exploring, and conversating that reminded me of why I love spending time with my guy.

In November, I flew to London with my daughter, and we had an unforgettable ten days. I had never been to the UK, and will probably never get there again. I wish I would have known that back then.

On December 31, I threw a New Year’s Eve party, and we all cheered and celebrated the coming of 2020 with steak, lobster, and champagne. Happy 2020! Happy New Year!

In January, my grandson turned ten years old! And I recall thinking that it seemed like yesterday that I gently held his tiny swaddled body at the hospital. Back in the day when I assumed that I had all the time in the world to spend with him.

In February, I celebrated my daughter’s birthday in Brooklyn, New York, at an annual Peter Luger’s extravaganza with her two best friends. Porterhouse, thick-cut bacon, and an ice-cold martini, oh my!

And then, well, everything changed.

On March 7, I went into quarantine. I haven’t left my house since.

I remember the date, not because Coronavirus happened, but because it was the birthday of a special someone. A someone I’ve never met and who is a beloved and integral part of what I would do if I weren’t afraid.

On April 3, I corona-celebrated my 67th birthday. How the hell did 67 happen? But the day is seared in my memory forever, not because I turned 67, but because my Aunt Mary and one of my best friends I affectionately called Annie Pannie, were both buried that day.

On May 10, I got to see my daughter for the first time since we celebrated her birthday in February. The best Mother’s Day ever.

On June 21, we spent Father’s Day with two of our grandchildren, albeit socially distant. We hadn’t seen them since the prior November. And wow, how they had grown.

On July 21, I was fired from my executive director job by the deputy mayor of Cedarhurst, New York, because I asked to sit out the promoting and organizing of the annual summer Sidewalk Sale, which in the past years brought thousands of people to the shopping village. Sorry, not sorry, but I didn’t see anywhere in my job description that it was okay to kill people.

In August, I celebrated my 21st wedding anniversary with my husband corona-style, i.e., I warmed up whatever leftovers I had in my fridge, followed by a two-hour television binge of Married at First Sight.

And now, here we are on September 18, 2020.

I’m contemplating what I would do if I weren’t afraid—to reach out, and ask a most treasured person for their forgiveness.

I recently read that in asking for forgiveness, we often overlook the balance between the one who asks for forgiveness and the one who forgives.

I find it difficult to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made. And even though I recognize that I’m a work in progress, I continually beat myself up over events I wish I could go back and change.

I desperately want a do-over. A chance to make things right and put the mistakes and regrets behind me and out of my life forever.

I would ask for a second chance—that’s what I would do if I weren’t afraid.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve asked this person for forgiveness many times.

So many times that I’ve all but given up.

I said, “all but.”

Before I was Jewish, I was Catholic and taught that I was born with original sin. I always took that to mean that I was predisposed to making mistakes—a lot of them.

And I learned over the years that sh** happens. But it’s never too late to make amends.

I’ve personally given plenty of loved one’s numerous chances. Some took full and loving advantage, and others did not. But I don’t regret forgiving.

So, I’m going to ask for forgiveness, even though I’m afraid.

And I know that if I’m forgiven—which I probably won’t be—we will never be able to get back to the way we were. Asking and receiving forgiveness doesn’t mean all is erased.

I’m not naïve.

I know that if I’m forgiven, it will never eliminate the anguish of the injury or the memory of the pain I caused. I’m just hoping to break the impasse—to unbreak two hearts.

And tonight, when I light the Sabbath candles, I’ll pray for a new beginning. Not just for me, but for all of us.

Because we are in a very dark time, and there is way too much suffering and human wounds out there.

And even though I’m afraid, I will send that email. I won’t call because I know I’ll never get a callback.

I’m hoping, but not expecting a response to my apology.

And until I draw my last breath, I will pray for the courage to keep trying and to never lose hope.

Even though I’m afraid.

Describing Thanksgiving

Holidays, ,

When I was in London last November, everyone kept asking me the same question:

Why are Americans so obsessed with Thanksgiving?

I didn’t want to insult anyone, so I left out some of the Pilgrim stuff.

How would they have felt if I told them that the Pilgrims were refugees fleeing persecution due to the brutality of the English monarchy?

They would surely have been insulted if I said to them that the Pilgrims fled England because of the despicable treatment by their government due to religious, cultural, and societal intolerance.

So, I told them the bare bones of Thanksgiving:

In 1620 the Pilgrims sailed from England on the Mayflower and landed near Plymouth Rock in what would later become Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Pilgrims had a good harvest that year, so they wanted to celebrate.

During that “First Thanksgiving,” European Immigrants broke bread with their friendly Native American neighbors in harmony and peace.

I didn’t tell them that the friendship between the immigrants and the Native Americans didn’t pan out and that most of New England’s native population was wiped out over the next few decades.

But what I did tell them was that every year we continue to celebrate the first time that races and cultures came together and left out the ugly stuff that happened after that initial Thanksgiving.

I also told them that in 1863 Abraham Lincoln made it an official national holiday. And that Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving as a holiday just a few months before he delivered the Gettysburg Address, declaring that in America, all men were created equal.

Several Londoners asked me if that meant that Thanksgiving is a celebration of American equality.

My answer was that Thanksgiving celebrates what makes America so great: Religious and personal tolerance, the belief that we are all equal, and the inclusiveness of every culture.

As I explained Thanksgiving, I said the words, but they felt empty to me. I wasn’t buying my explanation.

If I wasn’t buying it, why should they?

Here I was tying Thanksgiving together with America’s core values, but instead of feeling pride, I felt embarrassed, like I was an imposter.

And as I explained that Thanksgiving was a celebration of American values, not only could I see their pessimism, but sadly, inside, I felt it as well.

As I spoke out loud about American racial and religious tolerance, combined with the acceptance of multiculturalism, I was asking myself:

Am I talking American bullshit? Is Thanksgiving a sham? Is it merely an outdated holiday with no actual meaning?

God help us if it is.

Thanksgiving Dinner with My Deceased Grandmother

Holidays


I know what you’re thinking. MORBID!

But I don’t feel morbid at all.

I feel excitement.

I’m looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with my grandmother.

The big day is almost upon me, and I’m excited about sharing it with a lot of the people I love the most and who will help to make my Thanksgiving special, including my deceased grandmother Mammy (MayMe).

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that my grandmother was the matriarch and head honcho of my family of four women, which consisted of Grammy Nadeau (my great-grandmother), Mammy, Mommy, and me.

Now that I have finally published my second book, The Day It Snowed Popcorn; I’ve started on my third, a cookbook titled Tu Me Manques.

When I first thought about what the title of my cookbook would be, Tu Me Manques was the name that kept churning around in my head over and over again.

There was another possible title that kept creeping into my psyche as well: Mon Petit Chou.

Mon Petit Chou was my grandmother’s pet name for me, which means “My Little Cabbage.”

As a kid, I wasn’t thrilled about being compared to a gassy vegetable, but Mammy said it with such affection that I begrudgingly grew to accept her quirky nickname for me.

Now, I revere the pet name and wish I could hear her say it to me one last time.

While it became a choice between the two titles, Tu Me Manques seemed to be the most fitting name for my book of Mammy’s recipes.

This deeper connotation perfectly sums up my sentiment about Mammy.

Sorry if this tu me manques business is going on too long.

But I’m not sorry that I found the phrase.

Because it almost makes my grief explainable. I’m almost able to put the pain and loss of Mammy into words.

Whatever the translation, the title Tu Me Manques is a done deal.

I was once asked what I would like to have as my last meal, and my quick reply was:

Anything made by Mammy.

Trying to recreate the foods my grandmother cooked is to celebrate her and to forever preserve her memory through the taste and smell of her recipes.

Mammy served up lots of kisses, lots of good advice with a constant side of delicious and comforting food.

My daughter Ariel once asked me if I had any recipes handwritten by Mammy.

Unfortunately, the answer is no.

French was Mammy’s first language, and she was just fifteen when her father was rendered a vegetable from a traumatic brain injury.

As a result, she was pulled out of school to help work the farm and take care of her younger siblings. She was one of ten kids; one died at birth.

Mammy was barely able to read or write in English, so I have nothing left of her handwriting at all.

I once had a birthday card, but during an unfortunate time in my life, it went missing.

Mammy wasn’t literate, but she was one hell of a cooker.

Unfortunately, her recipes were all in her head and never written down, except by me over the years.

When my grandmother died in 1983, so did all of her recipes.

I have spent the better part of the last 36 years trying to recreate them.

So today, when I sat down to plan out my Thanksgiving dinner, Tue Me Manques, was what I wrote down.

What better time to start testing my memory of Mammy’s holiday foods, than a Thanksgiving gathering when family heirloom recipes are traditionally in abundance?

And as I chop and mix and bake, I’m sure I’ll give thanks to Mammy for believing in me and loving me the biggest and the best of anyone ever.

I spent a lifetime doubting myself, but I never doubted her love for me.

But mostly, I will thank her for the cherished memory of a woman who was broken time and time again, tested in ways that still bring me to tears.

And yet, she pulled herself up, stood tall (even though she was only a little over 5 feet), and always walked with dignity and pride.

And I will also thank her for the precious space she holds in my heart that’s filled with lessons taught of empathy and strength and resilience.

As I prepare Thanksgiving dinner this year, I know Mammy will be in the house.

And while I cook away, I’ll imagine Mammy at my side, guiding me along.

“Not so much of this. A little more of that. Don’t forget to taste everything.”

And I will fondly recall how we stood side by side, back in a time that is becoming harder and harder to remember, mixing and mashing, while my Mammy would tell me stories of young love and yesterdays, sprinkled with her unforgettable giggle, a twinkle in her beautiful eyes and just a hint of regret.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mammy.

Tu me manques, mon petit chou.