Last week I shared an essay aloud to my critique group. That’s what we do. We write. We read. We discuss what we wrote and heard and read. It’s nerdilicious.

I had written “peeking” so that’s what I read, rather than my intended word, sneaking. Once peeking entered the room, I was overcome with a fit of giggles. A good kind of trigger, I tracked the memory.

When Riley was little and spent time with my parents, the three of them often went to a sketchy Asian restaurant in a strip mall near rural Carthage. Think Chinese buffet between Tractor Supply and Family Dollar. Riley called this place, Peeking Rock, also known by the actual name of Peking Wok.

After our critiques ended, I called Riley.

“Do you remember the Chinese Buffet you went to with Grandma and Pa?” I asked.

“Peeking Rock? Oh, I loved that place. They had those little fried dough things.”

“Like a hushpuppy rolled in sugar?” I reminisced, smiling. “So delicious.”

As I was telling the story about the sneaking/peeking word slip and my conversation with Riley to Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, tears welled. Thanksgiving was my mom’s favorite holiday. We cooked and baked all the things. Macy’s parade blared from the console, back when the television entertainment center was a piece of furniture that took up a quarter of the living room.

We crowded around the table anxious for the creations, salivating with impatience as we waited for the biscuits to brown and gravy to bubble.

When my parents were alive, they were the epicenter of my community. After their passing, I wondered in the wilderness for a while, not sure what to do, especially at the holidays. Without them, even when I attempted to duplicate the traditions that were sculpted into my being, the outcomes never matched the original recipe.

For a while, I hosted an annual “orphans & strays” meal and welcomed anyone that was alone or displaced (no matter the reason,) to our table. This was a pretty good chapter with its hectic chaos, forcing chairs around tight spaces. I learned to make a mean gravy from turkey drippings. It felt as close to Mom’s Thanksgivings of old as I’ve ever been able to get.

As the year passed and children grew and flew, we’ve adopted the new. We are blessed with a strong sense of community that runs deep and forks in the direction of the interests and relationships we’ve forged in our forever home. It’s heartening to learn how to build this kind life as we age. I feel grateful.

I’ve had several Thanksgivings this year. One was a Friendsgiving complete with all the fixings and yard Jenga. It was with one of our communities. It was a great day.

Carteret Writers’ hosted a “Wordsgiving” for which we made sides and wrote something connected to November’s big dance. The writing and food satiated my belly and soul. I wrote this poem from the POV of Butternut Squash.

Better, Not

Tanned, taut skin

Legs in the air, juicy breasts shining

From the center piece

Always the star

Miss Mashed, fluffed in an updo

All lumpy and buttery beside her bestie, gravy

Everyone’s sweethearts

And here I sit, an aside

Stuck as a side

On a side table

They all ask

Is this sweet potato?

Is this acorn squash?

It this pumpkin?

Wait, is this butternot?

Betternut?

Betternot?

I clear my throat, and offer, “Butternut”

But nobody hears me

I’m passed over

Left out

Left over

Tossed out

“It’s not really a vegetable holiday,” says one

Plate and mouth full, belly loose and jiggly

Strategically clothed in elastic waist

“Technically, I’m a berry,” I correct

But no one cares enough to give me a try

It’s clear that I’m here so they can feel proud

Bragging later about the “betternot”

Once featured at their table

 

This year I’m in New York City with our grown children and a collection of their friends watching Macy’s Day Parade in person. It’s not better than it was in the living room of my childhood home with Mom making biscuits, but it’s present and real and my kids are with me. Life requires constant calibration to the moving parts of change. I’m in community with the moment, abundant in love, giving thanks.

To all of you, try some squash.