Attributed to Paolo Antonio Barbieri:
Kitchen Still Life (c. 1640)

"Bless all those less fortunate than us."

The Muse and I celebrate holidays primarily through Prep. The actual feast always turns out okay, but it takes so little time compared to completing the steps leading up to the sitting. Prep typically starts weeks in advance, with The Muse initiating some of the effort. In between, there's much gathering and sorting, considering and deciding, baking and boiling. There were times, much earlier in our relationship, when all this effort seemed unique. Now, it's taken the form of ritual, still unique enough but also terribly familiar. We solve few mysteries between larder and table, besides the pedestrian kind of finding key ingredients like Giblets. We're not interested in what The Post and Times suggest we include on our menu, for we're observing traditions stretching back generations. And, no, there will be no Jello® salad served.

I say "we" when I mean "she” for The Muse performs the bulk of the Prep. She's the one carrying forward tradition. I schlepp and appreciate in recognition. She'll be up late the night before baking pies, which will greet me on the stovetop when I get up too early on Thanksgiving morning. I will have carted the turkey out to the back deck to brine overnight, then next evening drained it off to dry in the garage refrigerator. Activity moves from the kitchen to our expansive seasonally refrigerated Walk-Out Deck, where we store stuff too bulky for either refrigerator. We're careful to secure our treasures there lest, as happened last year, some passing animal helps themself to a prized leftover.

The holidays are days of scent. We smell our way from Halloween through Thanksgiving and into Christmas and New Year. Cinnamon signifies the season, but so do nutmeg and cardamon. Candied peel dries in sugar snowbanks until rendered enough to secure in canning jars. The house becomes redolent in citrus scents, which get into everything, even the furniture, with no complaints from anyone here or visitors. The best china comes out of storage to be washed by hand before and after use. The silver, too, might require some shining up before use. Lengthened with leaves from the front hall closet, the table will hold its usual seasonal cloth. The special napkins, too, will be assembled for use.

I slip into then back out of my yard shoes to trundle something between the kitchen and garage or maybe empty trimmings into the compost heap. I might take a break from the steam and smells to sit out in my cold garage, let the glow evaporate off me, and reflect on what fate has dealt me. I have plenty of remorse for the sins I committed, and for opportunities I missed. I have not always comported myself nobly enough and often even disappointed myself. Yet, here I sit, chilling on a foggy evening while the kitchen windows steam over and refract warm and reassuring light. Even in the darker of this year's nights, everything seems more or less alright. I'm blessed not by some supreme being, I suspect, but by something or someone a little closer to home. This world is more forgiving and vicious than I ever imagined. I could have been torn apart a thousand times before now, but I wasn't. This says nothing about my resilience but might say much about how forgiving this universe has been to us. This fact alone might justify no end of Thanksgiving. Bless all those less fortunate than us.

©2023 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #GoodNuff, #PureSchmaltz