As large families grow even larger, we have, over the decades, witnessed the ebb and flow of family gatherings. Families grow, bursting their homes at the seams, and then over time, the younger generation comes of age and becomes hosts to the older generations. Families are dispersed to manage their own smaller Thanksgivings, and then over time, children have children and suddenly the home isn't big enough any more. This Thanksgiving was one of those: bursting, loud, full of youth yet flooded with memory.
My mother is a traditionalist: she insisted on a sit-down affair with real china and silverware. We used every piece if china in the house, from mom's own silver-rimmed wedding china from Auerbach's to great-grandma Chamberlain's famous fish plates with the little lavender flowers. The silverware was Grandma Clark's. Even the raspberry Jell-O resting on a lettuce leaf on a separate salad plate was an homage to a bygone era.
When I observed Jane drinking from one of Grandma Ginny's blue glass goblets, I was overcome with the feeling that we were literally surrounded by history. Not just any history—our legacy from our own flesh, witnessing to us the great abundance that we share.
And what is Thanksgiving without (count 'em) 13 pies.
Oh, pie. The quintessential homage: nostalgic, humble, American, sweet, tangy, buttery, and altogether symbolic everything I love.
Not all Thanksgivings will be like this. Some will be more simple affairs as we turn once again to our own growing families. But these will be the ones I'll remember because they were like the ones from my own childhood: overcrowded rooms, fancy plates, steaming windows, giggling through the prayer at the kids table, and a feeling of abundance, fullness, gratitude in a home literally overflowing with family.