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“Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.” — Vladimir Nabokov
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Forty-four years since my last taste of roasted turkey, its beloved aroma still evokes fond (and one not-so-fond) memories of Thanksgivings past.
How easily I recall them. Here’s one: Awakening to the smell of “your mother’s turkey,” as Dad called it, already roasting in “your mother’s oven,” and my stoic Dad, never one to wax poetic, amazed us when he said, “I hope this is what heaven will smell like.”
Here’s another: Eavesdropping on the kitchen chatter between Mom and my grandmas as they cooked Thanksgiving dinner together. Their Charles Dickens-like, colorful recollections of their long-gone relatives, friends, husbands and long-ago sweethearts, their muted secrets about a certain neighbor, mahjong player, congregant and, maybe best of all, their snooty critiques of so-and-so’s flawed recipes kept me entertained for hours.
Thanksgiving might have been the most enjoyable holiday of the year for me, maybe because it wasn’t one about religion for a change but instead, all about family, food and more food. Noshing nonstop was encouraged, as was arguing with friends over whose mom’s turkey would be the biggest and tasted best. One time Hershey Bigos and I got into a second grade-like “fist fight” at recess about all that. No punches were landed, of course. But that didn’t stop our Principal Blunt from calling home to report the incident. Mom said to me, “You shouldn’t fight about turkeys.” Then she administered a playful swat on my tush. Mom loved that I’d defended her and her Thanksgiving turkey.