Thanksgiving is an exceedingly groovy American holiday. Sure, drunk uncles are an issue. Sure, a small minority of short straw-holding people must do an insane amount of work. But they do so willingly, and typically with unstated pride. For stoics like my mother, the opportunity to cloister in the kitchen, away from humanity, was more feature than bug. For the rest of us, Thanksgiving is a grand, annual opportunity to freeload in another locale, occupy someone else’s comfy chair, fiddle with a strange remote, and consume familiar food with just enough eccentricities to qualify as culinary adventure. And we do this with no requirement other than to show up and depart at times that service decorum …and feign consciousness throughout (a mostly disregarded, Puritanical vestige in some families).
Given its age, Thanksgiving is remarkably consistent across time and culture. But cultural icons mature and shift within the laboratories of subculture, and Thanksgiving is no exception. If you have been fortunate enough to be a guest at Thanksgivings in different households, then you have sampled the diversity firsthand. If you are not one of those people, just accept that your family is weird. Of course, if you married into another family, you knew that already. If not, take my word for it; you’re weird.
We all do Thanksgiving our own way. Like many kids, I spent my early Thanksgivings at the kids table, typically accompanied by at least one stray adult who, unlike my mother, was unable to stow away in the kitchen with a credible alibi. This continued into early adulthood, by which time the term “kids table” was more vestige of history than description of reality. But through all those years, as the ethos of this so-called kids table evolved, many traditions remained stubbornly true to form. One of these – indeed, the essence of Thanksgiving to me -- was… <drumroll>
…fried cauliflower. I have never seen fried cauliflower at another Thanksgiving table. I do not know a person outside of my family who has ever heard of it, let alone eaten it as part of an annual ritual. And I haven’t the first clue how or when fried cauliflower nosed its way into family tradition. In the confusion of creating a Thanksgiving meal for twenty five people, who in their right mind chooses to bread and fry cruciferous vegetables for two hours? Well, my mother, that’s who, who found her peace and solace in the kitchen, where she ruled with an iron pan.
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