Every year I prep for our dinner of two,
a tradition we built, just us two
I used to float around the kitchen a zing of energy,
visions of presenting each dish for us two,
a family of two.
Now, I make these same dishes and instead of energy, memories float in:
that time my brother cooked up Pakistani goat curry instead of turkey
and although it was deliciously, it felt somehow lesser than without the bird
the time, same chef, decided to cover turkey in cayenne pepper only,
that first Thanksgiving I made boxed mashed potatoes and stuffing
the year I used my best friend’s grandmother’s yam casserole recipe–this one stuck for almost a decade and even though I don’t make it now, I miss it every year
the time we took a Thanksgiving cooking class and vowed to never take a cooking class again, but came home with a new appreciation for cranberry sauce
the time we hosted my pal and her husband and had baklava for dessert
the time we hosted my other pal and his then boyfriend, now husband, and had sweet potato pie and lemon pie for dessert and breakfast the next day
the time I, an Indian immigrant, answered questions about how to make the best turkey to my American married couple–each giving us a tiny glimpse into their marriage in the conference call
It’s easy to consider all the that’s lacking this time year,
Because boy did I dream the dreams as a kid: a kitchen filled with children
cooking together, laughter, mess, a lovely cacophony of loud voices
But then, I laugh out loud alone, in my silent kitchen
at the memory upon memory of Thanksgivings past
Each fills me, over and over.
