Our Thanksgiving.

As hostess for thanks giving I find myself in organized chaos. While scrambling around to get everything perfect, I seem to be confusing myself with a General in the Army. Ordering the kids to not make a mess, please get a table cloth and put an extra leaf in the table. Explaining to my husband over and over again why he can’t fallow me around the kitchen taste testing everything. Finally pleading to him, “The parade is on, here’s coffee for you and cider for the kids. Get out of the kitchen and go watch it, please.” He giggles as he motions for the kids to fallow him.
Greetings shoot through the house as our family arrives. Each of them dressed in their Sunday best handing me over bottles of wine and their traditional dishes. Cranberry sauce, squashes, broccoli, turnips, beets, carrots, mashed potatoes, candied yams, homemade breads of all kinds from zucchini to cornbread, jello jewels, pies fresh from grandmothers oven and so much more.
The turkey, stuffed with Moms famous stuffing, prepares to make its debut. Plates and platters that have been in the family for generations have left comfort of the china cabinet. Arranged in the classiest of manor, it in its self, is a feast for the eyes.  A cornucopia centers the display of family recipes that are locked in the minds of all the mothers in our family.
As we sit down everyone gapes in awe at the blessings on my table. We each take turns reciting something we are thankful for before father leads us in grace. A grace so powerful it commands even the youngest to silence. The wine is poured and the toast is made. So much to see, smell, and taste. The echoes of laughter tear though the house as dishes clank and memories glitter the dining room. Like a vine we are all connected at the table. Mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles and cousins all sharing their heritage.
Quinn, my three year old niece sits beside me and leans in to express her dislike for the “funny tasting pudding”. After I explained that it was not pudding at all, that it was squash, she then explained to me that “no one should ever eat anything that has been squashed.” As I sat there thinking she couldn’t get any cuter she whispered, “There is no candy in my yams? I need a different piece.”
My husband and brother are always so entertaining. They proudly bicker through all of their hunting adventures. Both of them on many occasions swearing the monster buck is still up there, but irrationally blaming anything that they can, for why it’s not mounted in their living rooms.
Our children rambunctiously beg to be freed from the table to run through the house. As permission is granted a calm comes over the feast. Emotions heighten as we reminisce. Part of being thankful is to except the things that we cannot change. We share stories of each of our family members who are smiling down from heaven. I am so proud to have a family so rich with love.
In a race for pie my kitchen transforms in to a beehive. Mother clears the table with the children and packages up leftovers into Tupperware for everyone the take home. My sister in law washes dishes as I dry then put them away. A system that has never failed us.
Everyone doing their part. Everyone that is, except for the guys. Football cheers and shouting thunder from the living room. Each of them rooting for a different team. Regardless the outcome of the game, Gramma’s pies cure all bruised egos. At least that’s how it seems to be.
Resetting the table, dressing it with pies and coffee brings us all together for the final chapter. A conclusion, much like in this column. Apple, peach, pumpkin, pecan and rhubarb pie top off this beautiful day of thanks. We have been so blessed in this life. Though we’ve had our fair share of trials, we have no regrets and for that I am the most thankful.