Memories from the Table, Part 1 - How Much Chicken Can One Person Eat?

Every family has their holiday mealtime traditions. In fact, I once took a history class during which the instructor said he could tell what decade a student’s family came to America based on the side dishes they served for Thanksgiving. He nailed it every time. Apparently, certain foods are the Must Serve fad of the moment and newcomers don’t know any better than to repeat it from that year forward. Take Jello Salad, for example. During the 1950s, every hostess had at least two jello molds and her own special recipe snatched out of a cookbook or magazine. Aunt Rose was the Jello Queen in our family. She made one for every for every holiday meal and then forgot to put it on the table. That was understandable. What with people being starving from observing a day of fasting, and all the courses she had to dish out one bowl or plate at a time, you could see where she’d get a little distracted. Eventually, it became a tradition. As soon as we wiped the last grain of dinner off our plates and were wheezing from fullness, she’d remember to bring out the Jello Salad. No one ate it. Well, maybe she ate it the next day. She must have liked it because in a few months we’d be celebrating another holiday and she’d whip up another Jello Salad. Eventually, she learned to put it on the table before we sat down. Then she’d forget to serve the green beans. Seriously, I cannot tell you the number of times she would emerge from the kitchen looking frazzled, holding a pan or bowl filled with green beans, saying she forgot to serve them. Sometimes we tasted one or two to be polite but most of the time we just looked at her like she was insane. You need to understand that fresh green vegetables were a New World oddity for our family of potato-loving Eastern Europeans. Canned peas were the closest thing to a green veggie that ever graced my parents’ table. Celery, onions, and carrots didn’t count because they were cooked to mush in the chicken soup. Sometimes we’d eat at a Hungarian restaurant. They knew about fresh vegetables. They would place a platter of celery, carrots, and long white radishes on the table, along with small bowls of pickled cucumbers and a big basket of sliced bread. No butter, just bread. This was so you wouldn’t starve while you were deciding which dinner to order. Once you ate a piece of celery, carrot, or radish you were no longer required to look at anything green. All of the dinners included an appetizer the size of a main dish, followed by a hefty bowl of soup, removed by a 12” wide platter piled with meat or fowl, noodles or grains, and potatoes. Of course it all ended with the ubiquitous poppy seed strudel because, you know, a sweet tooth. I’m explaining Hungarians to you to prove it was not just my family who believed each person should be served enough food to feed a horse. Do you know where that saying came from? I have no idea. I don’t even know how much a horse eats. I just know it’s what we said every time we had a big family meal. “Rosie, there’s enough food on my plate to feed a horse!” Even better yet: “You cooked enough to feed an army!” Another standing rule was there should be more leftovers for the next day than were served on the first day. How does this happen, you ask? It’s really not a miracle, like the one in the Bible. You invite twenty and cook for forty in case everyone wants a second helping. It was at Aunt Rose’s table that my first husband was welcomed into the family. He gladly helped himself to a serving of everything and then made the women happy by asking for a second helping of chicken and potatoes. That wasn’t the magic wand that turned them into adoring fans. It was when everyone else was pushing their chairs back to make room for their extended stomachs and he asked if there was any chicken left. I was sitting next to him at the end of the table farthest away from the almost emptied platter. I could hear the astonished whispers spreading up the table from Aunt to Aunt: “He wants more chicken!” Then the platter made its way down the table, lovingly passed from Aunt to Aunt who leaned forward so they could gaze at him with stardust in their eyes. “Here, have more. Eat.” Once he polished off the last of the chicken, they were putty in his hands. They couldn’t do enough for him. “Another piece of cake?” “What can I get you?” From that meal on, I never had to hear a word about him not being Jewish. He knew how to eat. Life would be good. Yes, mealtimes can be memorable introductions to the family. However, they don’t always have happy endings. Take for example the first time my girlfriend Lana spent the night. When she was asked what she would like for breakfast she declined all offers of eggs and lox and asked for cereal. That’s exactly what my mother poured out for her, a bowlful of cereal. When it was put in front of her, she blanched and asked what was happening. We said, “It’s cereal, like you wanted.” She wondered if she was supposed to help herself to some and pass the rest to others. “No. That’s just for you.” You should know that Lana was raised in a sensible home where the maid served a few cornflakes in a little bowl. On this morning she found herself confronted with an 8” bowl meant to serve all purposes: 2-plus cups of soup, a lumberjack’s serving of beef stew, or half a box of cereal, which is what we gave her. She looked at it, got frightened, and lost her appetite. Eventually, Lana and I grew up and hosting holiday meals became my responsibility, starting with the first Thanksgiving after I got married. Both sides of the family were coming. That meant twenty-six people at the table, so I bought the biggest turkey I could find which, coincidentally, weighed twenty-six pounds. I remembered that my mother always seasoned the turkey inside and out. (We didn’t know from stuffing.) So very early in the morning, I pulled off the wrapping and tried to get into the bird’s innards, but it’s legs were crossed and it wouldn’t let me in. Not knowing how to get around this barrier, I called my sister who was staying with my folks, and asked what was with the crossed legs. “Wait. Have you ever cooked a turkey before?” “No, but I’ve watched Ma do it.” “How many people are coming over?” “Twenty-six.” “What? You have twenty-six people and you never cooked a turkey? How big is it?” “Twenty-six pounds.” “I’m coming right over over to help you.” “No, no, I can manage, really. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do about these legs.” After she obliged me, I unlocked the secret door and removed several surprise packages. I was just about to rinse the bird off so I could season it when the damned thing slipped out of my hands, fell into the sink, and got stuck there. Calling for my husband’s help, the two of us tried futilely to push our fingers between the beast and the stainless steel sink so we could pry the thing free. We almost had it time after time except at the last minute our gooey fingers would lose their grips and the monstrosity would plunge back down, wedging in more firmly than the last. (Try picking up a 26-pound ball of slime with your fingertips and see how far you get.) That’s when I started to get a little anxious. Okay, I started to have an anxiety attack. But, you know, the table was set, and this was my trial by fire. So I dove in like a hawk, refusing to be vanquished by a stupid dead turkey. This time I managed to flip it out of the sink, up into the air … and onto the floor. I think it slid along the linoleum for a few feet before it came to a stop. Let me just say that there really is such a thing as beginner’s luck. In spite of an iffy beginning, we got the thing into a roasting pan and the truth is it turned out delicious. Maybe turkeys should always be mauled a little before roasting; perhaps manhandling tenderizes them. Whatever the reason, our escapee was flavorful and moist and no one at the table had a clue they’d been five minutes away from eating McDonald’s for Thanksgiving dinner that year. There’s more. I still want to tell you about cauliflower egg soup and how my mother met the Pope, but that will be for Part Two: Feeding the Hordes.