Specials of the Day.

There are a few restaurants that stick out in my mind for one reason or another. They are all gone now, either replaced by something or demolished all together. Some I remember for the food, some for the ambience, some for an experience or a combination of all three.

So, with the exception of Bill and Nada’s (which has been written about way too much), here they are. ...

Cafe Central — This was in Trolley Square, circa 1984. I think this was Salt Lake’s foray into the adventurous, creative dining scene. It was certainly mine. The restaurant was furnished with brightly colored abstract tables. Shiny ceramic animals bedazzled with beads and feathers decorated the place. This where I discovered chutney, asiago cheese, angel hair noodles, plum sauce, and chocolate gateau. They had a garlic dip for the breadsticks that would ward of a herd of vampires, too. I can’t forget the roller skating blue-haired waiter.

Ferrantelli — Also in Trolley Square. I don’t remember much about the food. However, I do remember one Valentine’s Day the violinist serenaded me and my boyfriend. Pretty progressive for 1988.

E.I.B.O.s — Rounding out the Trolley Square trinity was this little gem. The walls were a gallery of caricatures of Salt Lake’s rich and infamous. Anyone who was anyone had their image scrawled on the wall. E.I.B.O.s had an open-flame grill and a spit spiked with chicken that was served along side their onion straws and shoestring potatoes. Smart diners would order half and half. Oh, and the bleu cheese salad dressing would knock your socks off. I must say that their bread was a little tough.

Seaman James Bartley — This was in a strip mall on Fort Union Boulevard. This place stands out for me a.) because of its unfortunate name and b,) because of the one time I dined there. I guess it was about 1986. We had a company party there (all five of us) and I had come down with a bout of stomach flu. Rather than skip the party and diminish the guest list by 20% I went anyway. I was not a big seafood lover at the time and when I read the menu about the halibut with some sort of cream sauce, I had to leave the table. I ran down the hall and asked a busboy where the restrooms were. He pointed and I flung open the door. The door went into to a banquet hall filled with dozens of people glammed up in their fanciest duds and holding their wine glasses oh, so daintily. I proceeded to hurl all over their party then went back and took my seat at our own.

Hare Hollow — In 1978, I went there before a formal dance when I was a junior in high school. It was on Van Winkle and Highland, much further away than anywhere I had ever eaten in the valley. We were seated in a dining room which had a large picture window. Behind the glass was a deer, some birds and a little rabbit. My date Barbara and I opened our menus. “I’ll have the venison,” Barbara said. I opted for the rabbit. Our dining companions found no humor in either.

The Pagoda — This was a Chinese restaurant that, until recently, occupied a spot in the avenues. When I was in high school, there was no food genre I detested more that Chinese (well, maybe seafood). I contribute it to the takeout my Mom and Frank would bring home from the China Doll Lounge. At any rate, our high school choir had booked the Pagoda for our end-of-the-year banquet. I quivered at the thought of slimy chow mein and gloppy egg foo yung. The night of the banquet, I stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken and bought a combo meal. When I took my seat in the restaurant, I placed my meal on the table in front of me and began to dig in. Finger lickin’ good.

Luke’s Pizza — This was our neighborhood pizzeria in Poplar Grove. The individual booths that ran around the perimeter of the restaurant were covered with a quaint shingled roof. Chianti bottles covered in gobs of wax drippings adorned the tables. The thing I remember most, though, were Halloween Nights. Trick-or-Treaters would pop in for a free slice of pizza. A little savory to go with all that sugar.

Pipes & Pizza — This was somewhere on State Street in Murray during the late 70s. I’m not sure the pizza was much to speak of. The real draw was the pipe organ. It sat in the middle of the dining hall and was connected to a jumbled conglomeration of drums, banjos, pianos, cymbals and anything else that would make a noise. Silent movies would play on the screen and the organist would accompany them with all their might. It didn’t get much better than that.

Doolittle’s — This was a restaurant/club located in the Airport Hilton in the early 80s. I worked the swing shift at a bank across the street and on the occasional Friday we’d go there for dinner. More frequently, a few of us would go there after work to wind down. My Monte Cristo sandwich would dust my necktie with powdered sugar and my (underage) White Russians made me more than a bit tipsy. We would watch “Friday Night Videos” or “SCTV” poolside on the wide screen television. Then, I would hop into my VW Rabbit and head east on North Temple for a swervy, speedy ride home.

Club Baci (not just “Baci”—that was for the common folk) — In 1988, my friends and I sat  underneath the huge Kenvin Lyman neon mural and had our first taste of bread and balsamic.  Massive stained glass depictions of an Italian bike race separated the club side for the restaurant and upstairs was a mural that lined the entire balcony. Even the matchbooks were the coolest things in town.

Desert Edge — The last restaurant on this list is actually still in operation. Back in the day, it was called “The Pub.” To my friends and I, that’s what it will always be called. While everyone raves about the French Onion soup (which really is yummy), My mind  always goes back to the enchiladas, the nachos and pitcher after pitcher of 3.2 Coors Light. Now, for the most part, I opt for a niçoise salad and an iced tea. It’s still the best around.

The food folks all say that the Salt Lake dining scene is finally coming into its own. I think its been here all along.

New Year’s Rotten Eve.

Just when I thought I had pulled it all together. 

I had a year of therapy under my belt, bagged the bars, got my finances under control, and started to make some pretty decent friends. Who could’ve asked for more? Actually, I could have. I could have asked for someone to share New Year’s dinner and a glass of champagne with—maybe even a smooch to ring in 1993. 

But, no. 

New Year’s Eve found me home—chronically single and sick as a dog. The snow was falling in record depths outside and I had come down with the flu during my week spent shoveling driveways, roofs and buried cars. The shoveling stopped after I required six stitches in my right hand. I slashed it open trying to rid a cheap glass of some dried up Cranapple juice. Have you ever tried speeding to an emergency room, shifting a manual transmission with your right hand wrapped in a blood-drenched dishtowel? And your head loopy from Robitussin? On black ice? But I digress. 

So there I was, on the couch watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve alone. Actually, not totally alone. Bronski, my trusty bichon frise was on my lap. Cujo the cat was somewhere in the house. The glue-soaked purple fumes from the Duraflame log added some life to the chill of my drafty old bungalow. Dick Clark introduced the next band. I don’t remember who it was—Wang Chung, I think. Whoever it was was enough to send Bronski into a howling fit. He started to yelp like I’d never heard him yelp before. It was much like he would shriek if someone had stepped on his tail. No, more as if someone had cleated the tail of a howler monkey. He began to shake uncontrollably. His back arched and paws splayed. His eyes rolled back in his head —and he died. 

Yip. 

I placed him on the floor then sank into the couch. I blinked twice in disbelief. My mouth mouthed a silent “Br ...” 

I snapped back to reality when there was a rapping at my door. It was my next-door neighbor Karen, who was in a panic along with two of her kids. Her baby was locked in the car as it idled in her driveway. She asked to borrow my phone so she could call her husband. I obliged with a still-stunned nod. The kids were crying from cold, hunger, or the fact that their mom was wigging out. Karen was trying to remember the phone number and cussed quietly to herself. My head was throbbing. My nose was running. Everybody was “wang-chunging.” My dog looked like a fuzzy white rug in the violet glow of the Duraflame.

“Could everyone just leave?” I asked, trying to keep from imploding. Karen apologized as I showed them all the door. I collapsed on the couch and stared numbly at the TV as the ball as descended on Times Square. 

10!  9!  8!  7!  6!  5!  4!  3!

I took the remote in my good hand and clicked goodnight to 1992.

The Greatest Gift.

Even when I was a kid, Christmas shopping thrilled me to no end. I would gather whatever money I could and by things for the special people in my life. Grandma Perry got a windshield scraper. Aunt Doris was the recipient of a red plastic drinking cup. I bought a crochet hook and some beige yarn from Grand Central to fashion a sincere attempt at a potholder for Grandma Bishop. 

Mom was always harder to buy for. Pretty blouses ended up getting buried in the closet. Cheap perfume and costume jewelry never seemed to cut it. I’d later come to find out she wasn’t meant for frills and finery. When I got older, I bought her and Frank a glass fireplace screen. Not the most creative or sentimental of gifts, but they liked it well enough. Try as I did to find the perfect gift, I never really nailed it. 

In 1983, when I was 21, I attempted the impossible. I told my two brothers that I had booked a portrait photo session for the three of us. This would shock the hell out of Mom since Mark, Dave and I barely spoke a word to each other. They hemmed and hawed but reluctantly agreed to do it. We took separate cars to the studio and pretended we like each other.

Christmas morning we all unwrapped our bounty—nice gifts but nothing spectacular. Then we presented the 8x10 package to Mom. She looked at us, opened it and cried.

Nailed it.

Twas the Night Before and the Morning After.

From what I’ve been told, the real magic of Christmas usually happened between the time we kids went to bed and when we woke up in the morning. 

There was the night Steve Hernandez’ wife kicked him out of the house so he came over to ours for a beer or six. He showed up again on our doorstep Christmas morning bleary-eyed and reeking of the night before. We wondered why he was there and wished he would just go away and leave us to our Hot Wheels and Chatty Cathys. He sat on our couch in a haze as the smell of Incredible Edibles wafted through the air. Not a good smell when one is hungover, I’m sure.

One night as we were snuggled all tight in our beds, we heard clacking and clamoring in the living room. We peeked from the hallway to see Mom, Frank and their friends George and Midge playing with the toy hockey game Santa was supposedly giving to Mark. They were also having a pool tournament on our family’s new pool table. In the morning, hockey game didn’t work as smoothly as a new one should. The pool table was drink-stained and looked like something the Salvation Army had given us.

But the best night was the one when Sharon Chatwin came over for an after hours Christmas cocktail. Mom and Frank had sent us all to bed. Sharon, a single mom, had tucked in Ernie and Jeff. The parents were all exhausted from the day and needed to finally wind down.

As the grownups sat smoking around the dining room table, Jeff burst through the front door. “Mom!” he screamed, “Santa’s been here already! I unwrapped my presents and got a G.I. Joe, a wood burning set, some shirts...” Sharon turned as white as the new fallen snow. She was a hard-working nurse who barely scraped by to make a nice Christmas morning for her two boys. And if that weren’t enough, Jeff shouted that he had unwrapped Ernie’s gifts, too! And Mom’s! He proceeded to tell her what everyone in the family would receive the next morning.

Sharon knocked back her highball and grabbed Jeff by the ear. She hauled him off to their house next door and I’m sure, in true Chatwin form, gave him something that he really asked for—a great big can of Whoop-ass.

Making a List, Checking it Twice.

I never thought of myself as an accountant, but my talent for spreadsheets came when I was ten. Not only was my Christmas wish list a mile long, it was quite detailed as well.

I started by tearing out a page from my spiral note book. At the top I carefully printed “Scott’s Christmas List—1972.” I proceeded to make my list (in order of preference) of toys, clothes and art supplies. I also wanted 45rpm records like Michael Jackson’s “Ben” and Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling”. Board games like “Clue” and “Masterpiece” also made the list. Mimi wanted them too, so our double-teaming ensured at least one of us would be a recipient.

I drew some columns to the right of the product name for size, color, price and store where it could be found. Each of these were color-coded with Flair pens. I even attached a newspaper ad for additional information if one was available. When it was complete, I handed it to mom as if I were turning in the week’s ledgers. My job was done. Or so I thought.

I’d lie awake at night thinking about Christmas morning and the bounty of gifts I was about to receive. I’d run through the list in my mind wondering if I had forgotten anything. I had. I wanted a Toss-Across game. I crept upstairs and found Mom’s purse. I fumbled through it past the Viceroys and the coin purse and found my chart. It was much larger than any of the other kids’ lists. They weren’t as demanding or picky. I took the pen out of her checkbook, scrawled the product information on Line 37 and went back to bed.

The next night, when everyone was asleep, I did the same thing. This time adding a Popeye gumball machine.

Christmas morning finally rolled around and my five siblings and I burst into the living room to find our biggest haul ever. The presents flowed from under the tree to practically the opposite wall of the room—bikes, a Verti-Bird, an Easy-Bake Oven. There was even a line-up of six homemade bean bag frogs seated on the couch. We were gobsmacked.

I’m really not sure if I got everything on my list that year—but who’s counting?

Naughty and Nice.

Easter has always been the time for over-the-top celebration at Mom and Frank’s house in Southern Utah. A dozen or so friends gather together each spring to raise Holy Hell. We had never thought about going down in December, assuming each of the others had their own holiday traditions with friends and family. In 2008, five of us “orphans” decided to head south for Christmas. We’d all pretty much adopted one another as family so why not spend it together this year? 

Christmas Eve found us donning our fuzzy antlers and blinking red noses to go caroling at the homes of some of Mom and Frank’s cohorts. These friends were in ill health or had no family with whom to share the season and needed a bit of comfort and joy. We sang a few carols in what we believed was heavenly harmony—“Let it Snow,” “Still, Still, Still” and ”Angels We Have Heard on High” were a few. At least our audiences thought they ere heavenly—for the egg nog had been flowing freely that night. Each of our stops ended with an angelic version of “Silent Night.” Mom’s friend Ursula was from Germany Jonathan so sang it in German. Ursula wept like a baby and gave us each a plate of sugar cookies to take home. All in all, it was an amazing night that filled many hearts with the spirt of the season—something that until then had been missing.

But a little sweetness goes a long way with my crowd. On Christmas morning, we all awoke and put on our morning clothes then headed into the main house. Jonathan and Josh wore leopard print silk pajamas. Jonathan added a hot pink boa to his. I work pink flannel PJs with little princess kitties on them. The others were just as cute. Mom and Frank wore footies, too. 

We poured our coffee and Bailey’s then started breakfast when we realized that we’d forgotten the orange juice for the mimosas. Since it was Christmas and the neighborhood market was closed, Jonathan and Josh had to drive clear into town to the 7-Eleven in their leopard prints, boas, and hair pointing every which way. They walked up to the register where cashier could only utter a nervous “Merry Christmas” certain that he had just seen a couple of Dickensian apparitions. The ghosts of Christmas glam.

When breakfast was finished, we went straight for the presents. We could barely contain our excitement. We opened them to find they were filled with home-burned CDs, silly novelty items candy treats and lots of booze. Chris even added some porn to his offerings causingmy parents’ eyes to grow wide with Christmas wonder. Santa gave Koko the dog a huge stuffed gorilla which she proceeded to mount and hump with wild abandon. We all laughed with holiday glee. After the gifts were opened, we all sat back and took it all in. The lights, the Bailey’s and mountains of wadded paper. When what to our wondering eyes should appear— Mom’s friend Argene dressed as Santa Claus burst through the door to give us all our Christmas spankings. She new we had been naughty naughty boys. It was a Christmas for the ages and one I’ll never forget. 

God bless us, everyone. And please hurry.

Deck the Halls

Christmas in 1970 found Mom working away at at the jigsaw in our home workshop. That season, she cut out dozens of little ornaments from of thin sheets of plywood. She painted them in bright colors and bedazzled them with hints of glitter. There were the requisite Santa Claus, reindeer, snowman and Baby Jesus, along with musical instruments and candy canes. But the best ones were cartoon likenesses of each of us six kids. Throw in a Green Bay football helmet, Popeye, a bottle of coke and a can of Coors and our family’s tree was amazing enough to warrant a story in The Salt Lake Tribune.

Mom also built a little doll house filled with so many details you couldn’t take it all in with just one viewing. A family of snowmen rested in their wee little beds. There was a mouse, a Christmas tree, all sorts of tiny presents and a coal burning stove. Mama and Papa even had a tiny chamber pot next to their bed. On the snow-covered roof, Santa had arrived with a team of reindeer. No amount of glue could keep the reindeer from busting off causing Mom to curse her creation throughout the whole holiday season.

In 1975, our living room got a makeover. We had new drapes installed on our large living room windows. They were elegant gold swags with sheers and tasseled, braided  tie backs. That year, Mom decided that our old traditional holiday decor would clash with the drapes and came up with a new holiday theme. We went to Redwood Nursery and got a white flocked tree. Frank strung a few tasteful strings of gold lights and Mom adorned the boughs with nuts and birds. When it was finished, we kids just rolled our eyes. 

Seventies fashion was the death knell of Christmas wonderment on Pueblo Street.

Caroling, Caroling.

The first Christmas performance I remember was in second grade. My class did some sort of reindeer song—Rudolph, I imagine. Mrs. Landures ran around the auditorium in an effort to teach us to prance. To her horror (but the delight of her students) her wig flew off and was trampled by many of us who pranced behind. The night of the program, in an effort to be as reindeer-esque as possible, I was putting red lipstick on my nose. Somehow a glob of it plopped on the front of my white shirt. I tried to wash it off but only made matters worse. Seeing how distraught I was, Mrs. Dow made a construction paper necktie for me. As a show of solidarity, she made the rest of the boys wear them, too.

When I got into high school, our choir would perform at malls and festivals around town. Remember the “Cottonwood Mall Singing Christmas Tree?” Without fail, Grandma Perry would be out in the masses, signaling her arrival with a flash of her camera. My classmates loved her and looked for her presence in every crowd.

One night, I called Grandma to get some details about that night’s family Christmas party. Pies were baked, Swedish meatballs were ready to go, presents were wrapped, but the Santa she hired every year to surprise the kids was sick and couldn’t make it. She was practically in tears. I told her not to worry, that everything would be okay. With a couple of phone calls I had a dozen or so classmates arrive at her front door that night. Grandma’s eyes, lit up like a camera flash and she ushered us all into the crowded living room where we gave the best, most heartfelt performance of the season.

In 1992, I joined the Salt Lake Men’s Choir. We were presenting our Tenth Anniversary Concert in Abravanel Hall. We hired a small orchestra, and adorned the stage with a small fireplace vignette and two soaring angel mannequins resembling Pam Dawber and Leslie Uggams. All in all, it was a stellar performance. Stellar, that is, but for one solo given by a tenor named George. He fancied himself as the reincarnation of Enrico Caruso and arrived at the hall in a limousine. He told us all that he had furnished the buffet in the green room for all of us. When the time came for his solo in “Still, Still, Still” he tugged at the scarf and grasped his throat. The back of his hand went to his forehead and he collapsed—right there on stage to the gasps of our largest audience ever. Amanda the emcee gasped, too, trying her best to think of what to say. A couple of basses grabbed him by the arms and dragged him off stage. They looked at Amanda and said “He does this all the time.”

This year, my sister-in-law has asked me to join her and some friends as they carol around the old folks’ homes. I imagine there will be lots of gasps and throat clenching there, too.

Ghosts of Christmas Presents.

As I grew into my teens, Christmas began to lose a bit of its wonder. I no longer believed in Santa, no longer awoke to what seemed to be a hundred gifts under the tree. No more troll dolls, Legos or Little Kiddles. Christmas in my teens found me the recipient of things like colored markers and cases of Dr Pepper. It was still a good day to awaken to. We’d laugh about the oranges in our stockings that no one ever ate, the cousins’ annual tube sock exchange the night before and our dog Yogi eating the holiday suckers and puking them up again. 

Once the presents were unwrapped, we had to go to Dad’s. We didn’t want to, but that was part of the deal. We’d have to crawl out of our pajamas, comb our hair and wait for him to come get us. He didn’t seem to thrilled about leaving his own Christmas morning either, but it was part of the deal, too.

We drove what seemed like forever to his home in Sandy. His pickup truck was cold and rattly. The freeway was deserted and icy. Not much was spoken. The AM radio crackled with the sounds of Charley Pride and Loretta Lynn.

When we got to his home on Tonya Drive, we walked up the shag-carpeted stairs of his split-level to find my step-siblings playing with their new toys and having a good time of it all.

Dad offered us a glass of egg nog which he always diluted with a splash of Sprite. I graciously accepted and took a seat on the couch. Mark, Dave and I just stared at each other. Under the tree were three unwrapped gifts. The year before, Dad and Raelene gave me a beanbag chair. It was avocado green with kelly green felt piping. Raelene knew it wouldn’t match the decor of my bicentennial bedroom and would throw me into an OCD fit so she kindly crocheted a red, white and blue cover for it.

This year, Dad pointed under the tree and told us to grab our gifts. We did—then took our turns unwrapping them. Mark was thrilled to find a brand new 20 gauge shotgun. He couldn’t wait to go out the the gun club and bag a flock of mallards and honkers with Dad and Grandpa. 

Dave opened his to find a toolbox filled with a chrome-coated array of screwdrivers and socket wrenches. Perfect! He couldn’t wait to go home and dismantle and reassemble everything in sight. 

I opened mine to find a leather-bound Book of Mormon. I flipped the pages and muttered a silent WTF. Dad, with a proud tear in his eye, told me I could take it to Deseret Book and have my name engraved on its cover. I politely smiled and thanked them both. I couldn’t wait to go home.

My Christmas Top 10.

I tend to get overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and tastes of the season—all in a good way.  Here’s a list (in no particular order) of some of the things that put a tear in my eye and a song in my heart...

Food

Fruitcake (with fake fruit)

Red raspberry filled candies

Egg nog

Banana bread smeared with butter

A grapefruit for Christmas breakfast

Slice after slice of ham

Swedish meatballs

Orange sticks

Ribbon hard-tack candy

Sugar cookies from Mom’s old cutters

Music

Goodyear’s Great Songs of Christmas, 1965

John Denver and The Muppets—A Christmas Together

Perry Como—’Twas the Night Before Christmas

John Denver—Rocky Mountain Christmas

Barbra Streisand—A Christmas Album

Bing Crosby—White Christmas

Harry Connick, Jr.—When My Heart Finds Christmas

A Motown Christmas

Johnny Mathis—Merry Christmas

Nat “King” Cole—The Christmas Song

Gifts

Mom’s Scotty Dog Quilt

Little School Desk

Case of Dr Pepper

Fiddler on the Roof and A Chorus Line cast albums

Bean Bag Chair

My First Bike

Doodle Art

A Lite-Brite

Calphalon skillet

Boxed set of ‘50s Records

Sights

Christmas Street (Glen Arbor Drive)

Temple Square (when they did it up big)

Candle light posts, reindeer and carolers with beady eyes

Looking for Santa through Grandma Bishop’s window

Grandma Perry’s porch

The spinning angels tinkling candelabra

Aunt Doris’ cardboard fireplace

Grandma Bishops old plaster nativity scene

The tubing runs in the snow-covered gully

Our living room the year Santa went crazy

Smells

Rum sauce

Pine boughs

Fresh snow

Spray snow

Jovan Musk

Burning logs

Gingerbread dough

Melting plastic from the Time Machine®

Candle wax

Cloves

Egg Nog and Orange Sticks.

Grandma liked a flocked tree—tall and not too big around. We scoured every lot in town to find just the right one. She asked the sales people if they would place it into the trunk of the Monte Carlo, watchfully making sure that no flocking fell off of the boughs. It happened the year before and she was still miffed.

We pulled into her driveway on Hollywood Avenue and oh, so carefully unloaded the day’s find. We dragged it into the living room and removed its plastic sheath. She asked if I could bring the bowling pins up from the basement. Grandma had two old, beat up boxes filled with them that were given to her by her cousin Gladys. The boxes would give the tree just the right amount of height.

Once it was perched, we took a breather. She fired up her Magnavox console and placed a few LPs on the spindle. Perry Como, Nat “King” Cole and a Firestone album or two were always the soundtrack for these annual afternoons.

Grandma poured us a couple of glasses of egg nog and offered me some hard-tack. Then we went to work.

She possessed countless strings of Christmas lights. Many tangled in wads, some didn’t work at all. I told her she should probably just throw them away but that wasn’t her style.

Each ornament had a story. There were the needlepoint cardinals she made herself. There was an origami of bird of paradise made from green ribbon made by a coworker from IML who ended up taking her own life. Balls, teardrops and clip-on candlesticks—every color from every decade. On top, we placed the blinking star. Then, in the corner behind the tree, we put the mirror—a tall dressing mirror that reflected the back of the tree. No detail was to be missed.

I took another swig of egg nog and went to trim put up the lights outside. She loved lights best of all and there could never be too many. The big plastic electric candles that stood sentry on her steps were just the right touch. I strapped them to the handrail with old nylon stockings which she used for just about everything.

Inside, she decorated the mantel and bookshelves by herself. She had a system. She had a couple of light up plastic carolers, lots of little candles shaped like carolers, too. There was a team of chrome reindeer all placed carefully on glitter-sprinkled cotton and fiberglass angel hair. Angels, camels and snowmen—a Christmas melange.

When we were finished, we took turns photographing one another in front of the tree, then sat in our chairs to admire the afternoon’s work. Grandma sat in her comfy chair. I sat in the swivel rocker. We stared at the lights nibbling on orange sticks and banana bread until the Magnavox record needle glided back to its resting place. The afternoon was a great success.

There were a million presents yet to wrap, but that was for another day—another sweet, glorious day.

The Good China.

Last week, my 8-year-old nephew Nathan came home from school with his Thanksgiving art project. It was a turkey made from brown construction paper. On each of its tail feathers a word was scrawled stating something was thankful for—things like Mom, Dad, Roxy the dog... 

On one of the feathers was written the word “China”.

When quizzically asked why he was thankful for China, Nathan said “Because that’s where we get all of our things.”

Duh.

Over the river and through the ‘hood.

Grandma and Grandpa Bishop lived in a tiny house on Bishop Place. The house was at one time an army barracks. Grandpa had won the down payment in a game of pool.

Every Thanksgiving, my family, along with my aunts, uncles, cousins would arrive at that house—stopping first to throw our jackets and sweaters onto the mountainous pile on the bed. Then the uncles would head for the living room and the football game, the aunts would head to the kitchen to help Grandma with the feast and the cousins would head to whatever spot was left in the tiny home. I usually sought refuge at the pile of National Geographics in the magazine rack by the front door and marveled at the photos of sharks, waterfalls and Swahili boobs.

There was a small dining room that separated the living room from the kitchen. In it, were two long tables‚ one for the grownups and one for the kids. You couldn’t graduate to the grownups table until you were married. One year after Mom was newly divorced and single, she was made to sit with the army of bratty kids. She grits her teeth to this day just thinking about it.

Also in the dining room was a sideboard where a few of the day’s treats lie in waiting. On it, was a plate of dessert that grandma made every year. It was lime jello, mayonnaise, fruit cocktail and cottage cheese whipped and frozen in soup cans then cut into round slices. At the time it was delicious. Now, I have my doubts.

Once dinner was ready, nearly two dozen of us would have to shuffle into the room single file, by family, in order to get everyone in their seats. The Zaelits, the Koesters, the Hortons, the Perry/Munsons and finally, Grandma and Grandpa— all making their entrance as if it were a State dinner in blue jeans.

Our prayer, “Good food, good meat. Good god, let’s eat” was always recited by one of the young kids who knew nothing about sacrilege. Non-traditional to say the least, but I do remember how truly thankful we all were to be together. The cousins and I would adorn our fingers with black olives while the aunts and uncles passed around the potatoes, marshmallow yams, the turkey, and a goose that grandpa shot that very morning.

After dinner, we’d exit the room in reverse order—the men headed back to the living room to nap, the women would head to the kitchen to clean, and the cousins would head to the gun closet where we’d laugh and snoop until Grandpa shooed us out.

Dishes done and football game over, we ate our pie. There was pumpkin, mincemeat and a lone banana cream saved just for Mom and Grandma. Finally, we grabbed our sweaters and hugged our goodbyes until we’d see each other on Christmas Eve —where we’d do it all over again.