Thanksgiving, 2010
Mexico City
There are only three times in my life I've not been home for Thansgiving.
The first time was in 1977. I was in New York City for the annual National Conference of English Teachers. I had a friend at that time, Marc Strauch, who was studying in Plattsburgh and he'd invited me to his family's home for the holiday. Home was a two bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village where he'd grown up. It wasn't a big apartment and it would have been difficult to prepare a big dinner, so his mother ordered out the turkey. At 2:00 that afternoon, after all his large Jewish family had gathered, the turkey was delivered from a neighborhood deli. That was a first for me!
The next time I was away was in 1998. I was in Nepal, at the end of a three day tour to Chitwan National Park. Thanksgiving mor
ning I took a boat ride on a river that brought to an elephant breeding reserve. That afternoon I caught a bus back to Khatmandu, tracked down some Americans I'd met on a trek earlier in the month, and the small group of us shared dinner. Certainly not turkey, and Thanksgivng was hardly mentioned. Perhaps I was the only one who remembered the holiday.
And today I found myself in Mexico City, sharing the day with the city's only Quaker community, a large group of young American ex pats and an assorted number of others.
It was a bittersweet sort of day, as was to be expected. I was happy to be part of a larger community, and to share the day with them, but there were moments of sadness.
I left my apartment in Coyoacán. Each day I listen to my favorite radio station from Montpelier (via my computer and a wireless connection in the apartment) and was fully aware that it was Thanksgiving. But once I began the walk to the Metro, on a lovely 70 degree, sunny day, it was just another day for Mexicans. They day had no significance for them.
Once at La Casa, the house was a flurry of activity. Folks were working in small groups, cleaning green beans, making salads, peeling potatoes. I was one of two paveros—turkey roasters. One of the turkeys had been baked the night before. Before I left La Casa on Wednesday, I’d prepared the second turkey and put in the fridge. At 9:00 a.m. Thursday morning I called La Casa to tell them to put it in the oven. When I arrived I was greeted to the familiar aroma of Thanksgiving—turkey roasting in the oven. Once again it was Thanksgiving.
La Casa hosted dinner for 50: the volunteers, Mexican employees of L
a Casa and their families, assorted house guests who came from Canada, The Phillipines, England, Finland, Greece, Honduras, Singapore and, of course, the USA. I’d invited my good friend, Gerardo, who’d been so generous with his support during the decline and death of my mother. He came dressed up for a holiday meal, and was overwhelmed with his first experience with this uniquely American holiday.
It was truly an international Thanksgiving and for a number of them it was their first experience with the holiday.
I could not help think back a year when Thanksgiving 2009 was the last holiday my mother was fully engaged in. Together, we made the traditional fruit salad. She was blind, but could cut the dates and cherries, feeling her way through the process. Cousin Lisa was there with two of her sons, as well as Ed, Rita and Steve. It was a joyous day. The day after Thanksgiving we went to Santa’s Workshop—a grey, late November day complete with snow flurries. It was wonderful.
There are two dishes that have graced the Ladue holiday table for years. The oldest is fruit salad.
Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas my mother’s grade school friend, Elaine Cranston, her daughter, Diane, who was three years older than I, and Elaine’s mother, Mrs. Dumas, would spend the day with us. Elaine had been widowed early in her marriage, and for as long I could remember, the three generations lived together.
My mother was happiest when the house was full for the holidays. She’d often complain later in her life about all the work that she had to do, but I know she loved it.
Each holiday Elaine would come to the house bearing a wicker basket full of fresh fruit. Apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, dates, walnuts, maraschino cherries, sugar, vanilla and heavy cream. While my mother prepared dinner, Elaine would sit at the kitchen table, peeling and cutting the fruit and later whipping the cream. She’d never do this the day before, or even the morning of the holiday.
“Garbage,” she’d say. “It’s garbage if you prepare it in advance.”
My mother would pull out a special cut glass bowl that she’d gotten for her wedding and the fresh fruit salad would be placed in it.
There was never left over fruit salad, and Elaine’s recipe has weathered the years and is served for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Her memory lives on these many years and there’s never a holiday that passes when the fruit salad is present that we don’t speak lovingly of Elaine, Diane and Mrs. Dumas.
But now it is I who will speak lovingly of them—all of them gone now. And so, to honor their memory, I made Elaine’s fruit salad. This year I bought the fruit from the fruit truck that sets itself up on the corner near La Casa. The fruit was super-fresh from the lowlands of Mexico. At 2:00 pm I started peeling the fruit, adding the apples, bananas and whipped cream at the very end. Three times I cried, but caught myself. They weren’t tears of sadness but, rather, tears of knowing that things as they once were had changed.
I was grateful for this day, for this opportunity to share Thanksgiving with a diverse group of people.
I was grateful for years and years of happy holiday memories and vowed to continue the tradition. My mother loved the holidays and no mother could have created better Thanksgivings and Christmases then Rita Ladue. Thanks Mom!
By 7:00 pm I was tired and stuffed. The menu had been as diverse as the participants—each person bringing something traditional to their holiday. Of course, I had to sample everything. But I was tired and I knew I had a long commute from the center of the city to Coyoacán. Once on the streets and Metro it was not longer Thanksgiving, but I knew otherwise.
Forty minutes later, after walking home from the Metro, I arrived at my apartment, turned on the Christmas lights I’d strung up earlier in the week, poured myself a glass of wine, sat back and gave great thanks for a wonderful day.
Mexico City
There are only three times in my life I've not been home for Thansgiving.
The first time was in 1977. I was in New York City for the annual National Conference of English Teachers. I had a friend at that time, Marc Strauch, who was studying in Plattsburgh and he'd invited me to his family's home for the holiday. Home was a two bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village where he'd grown up. It wasn't a big apartment and it would have been difficult to prepare a big dinner, so his mother ordered out the turkey. At 2:00 that afternoon, after all his large Jewish family had gathered, the turkey was delivered from a neighborhood deli. That was a first for me!
The next time I was away was in 1998. I was in Nepal, at the end of a three day tour to Chitwan National Park. Thanksgiving mor
ning I took a boat ride on a river that brought to an elephant breeding reserve. That afternoon I caught a bus back to Khatmandu, tracked down some Americans I'd met on a trek earlier in the month, and the small group of us shared dinner. Certainly not turkey, and Thanksgivng was hardly mentioned. Perhaps I was the only one who remembered the holiday.And today I found myself in Mexico City, sharing the day with the city's only Quaker community, a large group of young American ex pats and an assorted number of others.
It was a bittersweet sort of day, as was to be expected. I was happy to be part of a larger community, and to share the day with them, but there were moments of sadness.
I left my apartment in Coyoacán. Each day I listen to my favorite radio station from Montpelier (via my computer and a wireless connection in the apartment) and was fully aware that it was Thanksgiving. But once I began the walk to the Metro, on a lovely 70 degree, sunny day, it was just another day for Mexicans. They day had no significance for them.
Once at La Casa, the h
ouse was a flurry of activity. Folks were working in small groups, cleaning green beans, making salads, peeling potatoes. I was one of two paveros—turkey roasters. One of the turkeys had been baked the night before. Before I left La Casa on Wednesday, I’d prepared the second turkey and put in the fridge. At 9:00 a.m. Thursday morning I called La Casa to tell them to put it in the oven. When I arrived I was greeted to the familiar aroma of Thanksgiving—turkey roasting in the oven. Once again it was Thanksgiving. La Casa hosted dinner for 50: the volunteers, Mexican employees of L
a Casa and their families, assorted house guests who came from Canada, The Phillipines, England, Finland, Greece, Honduras, Singapore and, of course, the USA. I’d invited my good friend, Gerardo, who’d been so generous with his support during the decline and death of my mother. He came dressed up for a holiday meal, and was overwhelmed with his first experience with this uniquely American holiday. It was truly an international Thanksgiving and for a number of them it was their first experience with the holiday.
I could not help think back a year when Thanksgiving 2009 was the last holiday my mother was fully engaged in. Together, we made the traditional fruit salad. She was blind, but could cut the dates and cherries, feeling her way through the process. Cousin Lisa was there with two of her sons, as well as Ed, Rita and Steve. It was a joyous day. The day after Thanksgiving we went to Santa’s Workshop—a grey, late November day complete with snow flurries. It was wonderful.
There are two dishes that have graced the Ladue holiday table for years. The oldest is fruit salad.
Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas my mother’s grade school friend, Elaine Cranston, her daughter, Diane, who was three years older than I, and Elaine’s mother, Mrs. Dumas, would spend the day with us. Elaine had been widowed early in her marriage, and for as long I could remember, the three generations lived together.
My mother was happiest when the house was full for the holidays. She’d often complain later in her life about all the work that she had to do, but I know she loved it.
Each holiday Elaine would come to the house bearing a wicker basket full of fresh fruit. Apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, dates, walnuts, maraschino cherries, sugar, vanilla and heavy cream. While my mother prepared dinner, Elaine would sit at the kitchen table, peeling and cutting the fruit and later whipping the cream. She’d never do this the day before, or even the morning of the holiday.
“Garbage,” she’d say. “It’s garbage if you prepare it in advance.”
My mother would pull out a special cut glass bowl that she’d gotten for her wedding and the fresh fruit salad would be placed in it.
There was never left over fruit salad, and Elaine’s recipe has weathered the years and is served for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Her memory lives on these many years and there’s never a holiday that passes when the fruit salad is present that we don’t speak lovingly of Elaine, Diane and Mrs. Dumas.
But now it is I who will speak lovingly of them—all of them gone now. And so, to honor their memory, I made Elaine’s fruit salad. This year I bought the fruit from the fruit truck that sets itself up on the corner near La Casa. The fruit was super-fresh from the lowlands of Mexico. At 2:00 pm I started peeling the fruit, adding the apples, bananas and whipped cream at the very end. Three times I cried, but caught myself. They weren’t tears of sadness but, rather, tears of knowing that things as they once were had changed.
I was grateful for this day, for this opportunity to share Thanksgiving with a diverse group of people.
I was grateful for years and years of happy holiday memories and vowed to continue the tradition. My mother loved the holidays and no mother could have created better Thanksgivings and Christmases then Rita Ladue. Thanks Mom!
By 7:00 pm I was tired and stuffed. The menu had been as diverse as the participants—each person bringing something traditional to their holiday. Of course, I had to sample everything. But I was tired and I knew I had a long commute from the center of the city to Coyoacán. Once on the streets and Metro it was not longer Thanksgiving, but I knew otherwise.
Forty minutes later, after walking home from the Metro, I arrived at my apartment, turned on the Christmas lights I’d strung up earlier in the week, poured myself a glass of wine, sat back and gave great thanks for a wonderful day.
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