Thanksgiving and other Endings

Wednesday, Thanksgiving "eve", the pies and muffins were baked and the pilgrim-themed table had been set all by the time I'd finished my third cup of coffee. Between the sweet drippings of the apple pie and the spice of the pumpkin, the kitchen smelled like a gingerbread house with a fireplace ablaze. Before noon, the chill of the morning turned into an almost tropical warmth. The sun was turning the lime green lemons corn yellow and the six heads of broccoli were proudly awaiting their inevitable decapitation for the upcoming feast. Then Tony died.

Tony was a war veteran, a good neighbor, and an animal lover. He hung a tattered American flag from a tree outside his bedroom window. He once cried over an ill and orphaned baby squirrel whom he adopted and then had to take to the Humane Society. A gruff New Yorker with a tough exterior and a soft heart, Tony was a character. He ambled side-to-side due to multiple hip operations; walking caused him great pain. He had no family; his neighbors were his only friends, especially Mary Ann, who lives next-door. From our backyard, you could hear Tony's cigarette-aged voice laughing, animated and playful when he visited Mary Ann for their morning smoke and coffee chat. His dog Reggie, a gentle Pit Bull mix, was always by his side. He had a black and white tuxedo cat he called Felix who would sit on a ledge lording over Reggie as if to pounce on anyone who would dare disturb the stocky white would-be beast with a splash of caramel across his rump.

For two days, Reggie sat vigil at Tony's feet until a friend discovered Tony had quietly slipped from here to there. When the sheriff arrived, Reggie gave up his watch and paced outside with his tail set south. By the time the medical examiner drove up in her hearse-black car followed by a sheet-white van, our neighbor George invited Reggie into his home where he could mourn the loss of the man who rescued him two years ago. He'd have the company of another dog and and a few other cats for the rest of his days. And of course, George took in Felix as well.

When Tony was wheeled from his front door down the path to the van, he was clad in a blanket of black vinyl. Our neighbors stood side-by-side saying their silent goodbyes; this would be his only funeral. I took down his flag and waved him well, thanking him for his service to our country and strew petals from his Bougainvillea in his path. As they drove off, we could hear Reggie howling his version of Taps.

That night I went to Red Lobster for dinner with Kim and Kim. We discovered the best time to go there is the night before Thanksgiving as it was practically empty. We spent our entire dinner conversation going around the table stating what we're thankful for. It started with our friendship, the roofs over our heads, food in our cupboards, our significant others, to our parents, each others' parents, good neighbors, the election results, our jobs, our bosses and even the little boy whose dying last wish was to feed the homeless. Dinner was satisfying.

Thanksgiving morning, I made the stuffing, stuffed the bird and started roasting well before noon. Two more guests were added to the list, thus, two more place-settings. I decided I still had time to make bread. I mixed the dough and yeast and added water. As I was transferring the canister of rising dough from the counter to the bread machine, it slipped from my hands, sunk straight down to the Terrazzo floor hitting it with a sickening crack. The mixture sucked in a deep breath, looking like a belly button. Then, it catapulted thick rising dough straight up like a rocket directly onto my mouth-agape,  aghast face with a resounding "whoosh".  I was covered with fast-acting, yeast-activated dough. Quarter-sized droplets doubled in size by the seconds as flour puddles spread on the tablecloth, on the rims of water goblets, silverware, plates, Saran-wrapped pies. The little pilgrim people had blobs of dough obliterating their smiling faces and I had yeast dripping from my chin, earlobes, eyelashes, hair.  I could see a dinner roll starting to rise on my nose. The chairs looked like black cows with white spots and the floor looked like one big cookie sheet. All I could do was laugh. From the tips of my hair to my slippers, I was the Pillsbury Dough Boy's twin. I had two hours to get rolling (no pun intended). I stripped, ran for the mop and some rags and started cleaning from the counter tops on down. The dough started to harden on the floor, mopping only spread the mess. I found an industrial scraper in the closet and started scraping the newly waxed floor. I cleared the table, washed every dish, glass, knife, fork, spoon and pilgrim while the table cloth was in the washer. The dough was hanging like icicles from my ears and when I had chance to glance in the hall mirror, I should have taken a picture, but I'll let your imagination do the talking. In an hour, all was clean. I took the once-starched tablecloth out of the dryer and draped it over the table. It was one huge wrinkle, so I ironed it right on the table!

By mid-afternoon, my guests arrived and everything was Martha Stewart perfect (in my dreams). Uncle and Mike, Nile, Kaye and Evan and I enjoyed string beans and broccoli picked fresh from the garden, turkey, stuffing, muffins, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies and Mike's homemade candy. Before dessert, we even stopped to take a plate to a homeless man up the road. By the time everyone left, and the dishes were done, I was full and satisfied. As I was turning out the light, I noticed a big blob of hardened dough defiantly hanging from the shade in the kitchen.

This morning while picking green beans, I noticed the absence of Tony's New York bravado echoing between the yards, and two other miracles of nature. First, the squirrels had had their own Thanksgiving feast. All the ears of corn were neatly chomped down to the stems, leaving not a trace of silk behind. And, it seems the time has come to prepare for the next holiday; the Christmas Cactus is getting ready to bloom. One thing for sure, though, there will be no dinner rolls on the menu (just memories of them rising from the flour, uh, I mean...floor).