There are ten of us for dinner this year, ranging in age from 2 ½ to 91. My granddaughter, who is clearly her mother’s daughter in terms of her young culinary interests, feasts solely on (in this order) pumpkin pie and cranberries. At least two other guests besides the two pescatarians opt for salmon. Five traditionalists dine on turkey and sweet potatoes. Everyone except the two-year-old has several helpings of green bean casserole, that holdover from the fifties that is about as healthy as—but even more delicious than—Twinkies. I have a large and lovely glass of the wine selected by my daughter-in-law and contemplate the table.
The plates are Fiesta, in shades—in homage to the season—of yellow, orange, and green, to mirror the last leaves on the maple tree outside the window. I have been careful, however, to make sure that my mother’s setting is pink. My granddaughter has a plate that features Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her that it used to be her Uncle Ted’s favorite plate. The water glasses—an anniversary gift—are from Spain; the wine glasses are from a set my husband and I bought for a housewarming party for our first home.
In November of 1980, I was the director of Juvenile Advocates, a
legal advocacy program for incarcerated teens located in Morgantown,
West Virginia. My job consisted of monitoring the treatment of
juveniles who were locked up in county jails, detention centers and
what were known then, as reform schools. Perhaps the most interesting
part of the job was that about every two weeks I would drive the
roller-coaster roads of the state to interview the kids locked up in
the various institutions from the West Virginia Industrial School for
Boys in
Pruntytown to the West Virginia Industrial School for Girls in Salem
and the Leckie Youth Center, located way down in the coalfields of
McDowell County.
What exactly is the root of all this antipathy toward Brussels sprouts? Is it the color? Sometimes it's not easy being green. Or yellowish-green.
So you're preparing for Thanksgiving and you’re already irritable just thinking about the cooking tasks that lie ahead of you. You wish that it was your sister-in-law who was the one cooking, as usual, but she is bailing this year and going to Paris (where they have lousy pumpkin pie, by the way).