Actions of Grace

My ex-husband, Charlie, comes from a family of toasters.  Not the kitchen appliance kind, the stand up in front of the people you love best and say something clever and meaningful and humorous kind.  The first time I visited Cleveland for Thanksgiving, I was terrified, despite having joined Toastmasters International, a public speaking organization, in anticipation of the visit.  Of course I didn't stand up to say anything that meal, and everyone was kind and made me fell welcome.  After a few years, I came to enjoy Thanksgiving in Cleveland, and even look forward to it, which is what holiday rituals are about, I think. Then, when I was no longer part of that family, I looked forward to it for my children, and to the stories they would bring home with them.  I would prompt them for the details I had already imagined.  Twin uncles Toby and David dressed in different color shirts.  Caviar pie. Sausage stuffing made with an onion the size of a nut. Extra tables spilling into the hallway to accommodate 25+ family and friends. The all-male carving scene in the kitchen, which my adult boys have now joined.  And of course the toasts.

I have incorporated some of the traditions into my life, though not always at Thanksgiving.  And I am happy just to know that others exist.  This morning in Cleveland, someone is making a caviar pie. I hope that after work tonight in Vermont, Jack will carve a turkey with the skill he honed in Cleveland.

A few years ago, I spent a wonderful pre-Thanksgiving weekend with my son Eric at the home of the Seven Fingers in Montreal.   (The Seven Fingers of the Hand is his circus company.)    The seven founding members live together, but separately, in a block of houses close to where Eric lived in Montreal.  During the day, in several of the separate kitchens, different elements of the dinner were coming together.  Ingredients and children and stories spilled from one kitchen to the other.  Charlie was there too.  We made several trips to the Atwater market a few blocks away.  New friends came in and out (but mostly in) throughout the day.  Twenty-five or more people in that adopted circus family fit themselves around the table.  Shana Carroll, one of the Seven, brought out a book and asked Eric to read a Thanksgiving toast that her father, columnist Jon Carroll, had written.  It was a wonderful toast, and Eric read it beautifully. I should not have been surprised, he comes from a family of toasters, after all.

I found the piece online* and read it to my own family a few days later at our Thanksgiving at my parents'.  It is a magical piece of writing, though my own reading on that day did not shine as brightly as Eric's did.  I did not grow up toasting, as he did.  I hope that somewhere in France, he will read it again today.

 My French-Canadian husband travels with his US passport (the vehicles are registered in Vermont) but he can't bring himself to say he is American (just ask the insufferable woman at the Canadian border crossing who once asked him where he had sworn his allegiance to the United States of America).  On this trip, we say that I am Estadaunidense and Luc is Canadiense; we both look as gringo as the next light-haired couple walking down the street.  In Quebec, Thanksgiving is viewed by French speakers as an imposition of the Anglos.  Luc did not grow up with Thanksgiving, but when he is home at the end of November (which is not often) he adopts the customs of my family, and enjoys the day because we do. Tom and Mary's many dips before dinner.  My mom's corn pudding. Cleveland sausage stuffing when my boys are there.  My sister Alison's cranberry-orange relish from the original mimeographed recipe she brought home from Royle School in third grade.  Jim's rendition of Nana's pumpkin pie. The tour around the table when each of us says what he is thankful for.  Luc says it keeps him full until Christmas.

Today we are in Puerto Chicama, a Peruvian fishing port famous for its left-hand point break (you can surf a 2 meter wave for up to 3.2 kilometers).  We are parked in a little garden next to the beach across from the El Hombre hostel, where The Man himself, a local surfing legend who now spends most of the year presiding over the scene from his patio, is off in Hawaii visiting his children for Thanksgiving.  He left the place in charge of his grandson, who gave us the keys to the hottest showers we've had in South America.  We can see the perfect breakers from the van window, and hear the surf in our sleep.   We are thankful to be here, and thankful that the traditions we love continue on this year without us.

Today we will celebrate with our version of local traditions.  We will eat rice and an onion and maybe corn.  We may break out the grill, cook a fish in the cactus garden and set up the table in the van tonight.  We will raise a glass and think of the people we love celebrating in the ways we remember, and feel thankful.


* http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2006/11/23/DDGLBMHPBM1.DTL

No photos this time, Internet too slow.