Ingredients for a Great Thanksgiving

(1) A beautiful natural setting, in this case the south Washington coast, where we stayed in a house set among grassy dunes and looking onto the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, over which a constantly changing sky gave dramatic contrast, now tumultuously gray with clouds, now streaming rays of late afternoon sun, now opening telescopic windows of blue, now tinged with sunset pinks. The wind tore at the grasses and tossed the rain in torrents against the house.

(2) Friends and family, in this case three beautiful children (nine and a half, nine, and seven years old), one of them my granddaughter; and their parents, including my son and daughter-in-law.

(3) Good and plentiful food, in this case a grand meal starring a turkey that was, we have to say right here at the beginning, superb, maybe because it had come from a local turkey farm and lay calm under the hand of the farmer as my granddaughter slit its throat; maybe because it soaked in a brine bath for eight or ten hours; maybe because my son smoked it for hours in the smoker he had made from beer kegs.

 Whatever the multiple causes, the turkey was the unmistakable king of the Thanksgiving meal, flanked by a chickpeas-and-squash-from-the-garden dish, pumpkin fritters, quinoa-mushroom stuffing, cranberry sauce, and a green salad, contributions from each of the adults. 

As for my pies, in spite of the early-morning disaster with one of the pie doughs that crumbled into bits when I tried to roll it, in the end I had three excellent crusts for three excellent pies: apple-pecan upside-down pie (voted the favorite); a beautiful dark red cranberry-pecan pie with sour cream topping; and banana-sour cream pie with a gingersnap crust.

(4) Fun things to do with kids that do not include watching television, such as, in my case, answering the request of the two girls to make candy by supervising them in the making of caramel sauce: easy enough that they could do it themselves, fast enough that they didn't lose interest before the project was over. When the sauce had cooled, they invited everyone to dip apple slices into it for an afternoon treat.

            The children also made grape-vine wreaths decorated with turkey feathers, and, one late afternoon, were invited to jump off a cliff. The sandy beach, pounded into white foam at one endless edge, was stopped at the parallel edge by an eight-foot cliff stretching down the coast. It was just high enough to take courage for the first leap. The sand was deep and soft enough to cushion the landing. One after another the kids leapt off the cliff, rolled in the sand when they landed, then jumped up at once to climb back up and leap off again.

            Best of all was the swimming. Rebecca, who swims regularly in the Puget Sound, had brought a wet suit for each of us. On Thursday afternoon and again on Friday we struggled into the heavy, rubbery, skin-tight suits, then braved the cold air and stinging rain to walk to the ocean. The children were in the water at once, dashing into the waves, then running back, chased by waves that sometimes overcame them, knocked them over, drenched them. They came up laughing, ready to do it again.

            I waded out, farther and farther, the waves splashing gradually higher onto my well protected chest. Finally, I took a deep breath and plunged my unprotected face into the cold water under a wave. After that it was easy – jumping waves, diving under them, swimming through them, riding them on a boogie board onto the sandy beach, then sloshing through the waves again to ride back in when just the right wave curled my way. Again and again and again, like the kids jumping off the cliff, like the ceaseless rhythm of the surf, I charged into the vast Pacific Ocean only to be propelled back onto earth again, until I felt battered and beaten by the waves and the rain and the wind and left the cold salt water for a hot shower, clean clothes, and good food.

(5) Treasurers from nature, in this case, for the children, a white-shell spiral they created on the beach,

and, for me, two images: puffs of foam blowing off the beach and rolling and running like sand-pipers, losing volume as they ran, but trying, trying, maybe with a great deal of effort – yes! up the sand bank and then, with a foam-muffled cheer for freedom, blowing out of sight over the land.

            Another day, on a walk on the beach, I saw, among the sandpipers and sea gulls, a white-face, white-tail, black-body bald eagle soaring low over the beach, giving me in its majesty and grace as much delight as the fanciful foam-puffs that made it over the cliff and into freedom.
(6) Memories of such precious days as these with people I love.