Every year around this time, I get inspired to attempt a down-home and beautifully-choreographed Thanksgiving feast for my family. The kind that Claire and Cliff Huxtable would be proud to host (to this very day, The Cosby Show for some reason is my yardstick for “traditional” households).
A gorgeously roasted whole turkey on a platter of garnish. Lots of silverware and place settings. A “carving station” for the poultry. Grandparents in suits and ties. Acknowledgment that food may not need chili powder and turmeric to taste right.
Where's the kofta curry?
But really, that’s not how we roll. Without fail, some kind of oyster curry, or tandoori chicken, or veg biriyani finds its way on the menu. Of course the “bland” mashed potatoes are kicked up with a pinch of masala or some sprigs of coriander. And we’re happy with just our forks, thank you very much (why one needs 15 different utensils is still beyond me).
That’s why I love this time of year. I am so happy to have arrived home a couple days ago, lazily settling back into being the (29-year-old-) baby of the family. That Thanksgiving itself, this unwavering and powerful yearly tradition since before I remember, simply did not exist in my parents’ consciousness a few decades ago, is hard to believe. We’ve now made it our own, as surely as we’ve made this our home.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
Filed under: Favorite foods, Food memories, Homestyle cooking
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