Thursday it was still dark out when I got up to start preparing food for the holiday weekend. I’ve always liked having the kitchen to myself, a habit I got into when I was young and first learning to cook, rolling out pie dough on the chopping block next to the refrigerator while the rest of the family watched TV or read. Now, I drink my coffee and mull the day, listening to music and thinking, or in this case, reviewing the recipe at hand. If I’m bringing food outside the house, I’m much more strict about adhering to actual instructions.
My family tree has thinned over the past couple of decades and most of my holidays are spent with friends than blood relatives. Still, as I roasted vegetables and made dressing, washed arugula and boiled cranberries, I thought, as I often do when I’m alone in the kitchen, of my Nana. I could see her slight frown, the look of worry combined with care on her brow, as she puttered over the stove, stirring pots and setting out the kroštule for her grandchildren.
The kitchen and the garden were Nana’s domains, cooking and growing things her arts and offerings. When she was alive, we took it for granted that she would be making the holiday meal, that plates of pastry would be set before us when we arrived at her house.
Nana kept a few dog-eared, hand-written recipe cards in a box under her counter but they were more guides than strict rules. She only took them out when she had a question about a cook time or temperature. Mostly she cooked and baked by feel: How things tasted was well-considered. Nourishment mattered. She’d been through wars and the Great Depression. I don’t think she ever took a full table for granted. It was a rare — and welcome —occurrence when she smiled or laughed.
This Thursday without family-family still felt like the holiday it was. There was time to cook and stretch and putter. I poured the cranberry sauce into a serving bowl and practiced yoga while the chickpeas were in the oven. Kwame got up and changed the strings on his oldest Martin. The cat basked in the sun.
Before heading out to a late afternoon friendsgiving, we went for a long walk, retrieving another guitar from the boat before circling over to call on another friend. The streets were quiet and the light beautiful. The fall colors are still going strong in Alameda and the sidewalks were covered with yellow and red and gold leaves. Many of the trees are still in various stages of fruiting and the sounds of the warblers and waxwings feeding on the various berries felt celebratory in and of itself. Maybe it was because I was feeling so connected to my grandmother earlier in the day, but as we walked from the marina I felt as if we were foreign travelers looking for a train station, Kwame with his hard case, me with a small bag holding sunflowers and almond cookies.
After, I packed up a box with the salad makings, the cranberry sauce, wine and hop water for the drive to Benicia. Our friend’s house was filled with food, much of it connecting the various cooks to their lineage. There was enough food to feed the dozen of us for the long weekend. There was much reason to be thankful.