Louise T. Guinther

Every year at Thanksgiving, I am reminded of George Bernard Shaw’s line, assigned to the hero, Captain Bluntschli, in Arms and the Man: “Do you like gratitude? I don’t. If pity is akin to love, gratitude is akin to the other thing.” 

I realize Shaw had some socio-economic point to make when he wrote that line, but it rankles me nonetheless. Personally, I love gratitude. I admire it when I observe it in others, and I am very happy for the rare moments when I manage to rise above daily irritations and find the perspective to properly appreciate all that I’ve been given. To me, the “other thing” gratitude is akin to is grace, with which it shares a Latin root. A nice summary of that kinship can be found in a post from the Franciscan Peacemakers, which describes grace as “gifts given without being earned and with no expectation of return.” (The rest of this touching and enlightening message can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=3024942510984185&id=216038678541263&set=a.237246366420494#)

On this day of official thanksgiving, I am always happy to be grateful. The list of my blessings is long and rich, and not least among them are the family traditions that have always made this holiday one of my favorites. 

In the kitchen, there was a spirit of culinary adventure to the days-long preparations for the turkey feast. Although the dishes themselves were always straightforward and old-fashioned, Mom had a certain pioneer devotion to making everything from scratch. I’m grateful for all the wonderful recipes she’s left us, but even more so for the advice and inspiration. Nothing intimidated her — she made her own pie crusts, showed us how to grind the cranberry relish through the ancient hand-cranked food mill, hauled the special corn-shaped cast-iron mold out every year to bake the home-made corn sticks and wielded the potato masher with aplomb. All of these entertainments held infinite fascination for us. There was no canned gravy or cranberry jelly. Even the watermelon-rind pickles were home-made. (Dad was in charge of the whimsical decorative touches: he used to fill up the cornucopia with everything from kumquats to pomegranates, stab a sword-shaped skewer strung with pickled crabapples into the back of the turkey and polish the old pickle caster to a fare-thee-well. And though he didn’t care for turkey himself, he was an expert carver.) Grandma was the general sous-chef and taster.

If there was no debate about the dishes on the Thanksgiving menu, there was always room for variation in the details: Did the stuffing want one apple or two? Should the mashed sweet potatoes have a dollop of bourbon or brandy, and did we want pecans or marshmallows on top? Would a dollop of sour cream improve the corn sticks, and was a butter crust too rich for the mincemeat pie?

Hovering over all the activity was the general aura of abiding love, trust and security that surrounded us, not just at holidays but all year long, ever year, even when physical ailments, financial woes or mental-health challenges were looming. We knew how lucky were were to have such an abundance of food, laughter, mutual affection and sympathy, and the feeling remains strong as ever, even though the parents and grandparents who so lovingly instilled it are all gone to their reward in heaven and we are left to fend for ourselves in the kitchen this year, with only their remembered guidance.

May every family on this joyous and solemn occasion for taking stock find that same sense of bounty and grace and as many of their own blessings to be grateful for as we have had all our lives at our holiday tables.