Chopping, Baking, Basting, Stirring

My work routine does not involve a Sir Topham Hat.  I am fortunate to be able to work from home, mostly, sitting amongst my books, with my screen saver showing pictures of my family, music that I deem necessary sounding out at whatever volume I choose.  And though there isn’t a monopoly man anywhere, extracting my marrow I, like many of us, prove to be my own worst overseer.  There is never really a day when the work is ever done. 

So, I am thankful for this day, when tradition transcends geography or nationality.  It is the fourth Thursday of November and though it won’t be restful, I will not be banging out emails today or driving across town to meet anyone today, nor tomorrow either.  Instead, cooking.  Chopping, baking, basting, stirring to a fevered crescendo, and the final gesture, whisking the floor into the gravy and announcing that it’s time to eat.

We have done this for decades now.  That seems impossible, but it’s true.  If I am home it necessarily means mom’s house.  I wouldn’t dare to try to compete on that level.  But I haven’t been home for this holiday since what, 1997 or so?  Exempting the places I lived where we didn’t have an oven, Hong Kong and Beijing in the late 90s’ we’ve always invited lots of friends, particularly those who don’t celebrate the holiday, over to our house for a feast. 

Here in Beijing it has been every year, certainly since 2007 or so.  Every year I look up the old email from mom with a recipe or two.  What’s the preheat temperature?  What’s the pounds-to-time-in-the-oven calculation?  Every year I do the same dishes.  Every year some of the same people come by.  Some are colleagues.  Some are parents of children’s friends.  And every year the alumnae of Thanksgivings past who’ve moved on to San Mateo or Boca Raton, send a text back wishing us well on the day. 

In my mind’s tongue, it is important to segregate on this day.  Keep it hearty and relatively bland.  Any other day I love to experiment with Indian tastes, or Italian tastes, Japanese nori or Sichuanese peppercorns.  But not today.  This should be a meal my maternal grandmother would have liked, with butter and potatoes rather than garlic or kimchi.  Some friends ask if they can bring anything.  Bring some wine if you must.  But this shouldn’t be a potluck with a potpourri of tastes.  I want tight control on the palate range orchestration. 

Thankful then, on this day of stressful rest.  With family and friends safe.  And the insistence of my own mind at bay for a little while.

Friday 11/20/18