Thanksgiving Day must conjure up memories for all of us regardless of our ages. I believe most adults can recall more Thanksgiving events than Christmas days. I don't know how to prove my conjecture other than anecdotal.
My formative years in Flint, Mich., involved holiday car trips to a favorite relative's home in Detroit. That meant my parents, my only brother and I had to jam ourselves into uncle Stanley's Chevy, which already held his elderly parents. Seven people in a two-door Chevrolet felt like sardines packed in a tin can.
Mom hated the preparation to ready the family for the 120-mile round trip. "Hurry up, kids!" Mom would say in frustration. "Get your coats and hats on. We must be ready to run out the front door the instant uncle Stan drives up. You know how mad he gets if he has to wait even one second."
It never changed until finally Dad bought his first car. But that took 15 years. He was oblivious to the situation. I now believe that he knew his brother probably suffered form battle fatigue after his five-year enlistment with the United States Coast Guard during WW II. Like most war veterans, he did not converse about the battles he fought. When he tried to speak long sentences, he stuttered - the one external change the family noticed upon his return from the war.
Upon our arrival at uncle Walter's and aunt Helen's Detroit home we couldn't wait to jump out of the car and greet our three cousins. My brother and I would spend the time before dinner playing games and running around like kids were supposed to do.
Added guests arrived. I learned they were my uncle's relatives. So when we all sat down to eat there were 17 happy, cheerful and hungry folks to take care of. Aunt Helen covered her gigantic dining-room table with beautiful linen. She had support from all the other ladies present to set all the foods on the great table.
Complementing the main turkey meal were galabkis commonly called cabbage rolls. Holiday dinners always included "white cucumbers" one of my personal favorites made with thinly sliced cucumbers, sour cream, white vinegar, thin slices of white onions and seasoned with pepper and salt.
Homemade batches of pierogi filled with white cheese and mashed potatoes, and graciously served with grandma's personal recipe vinaigrette, was decanted over white asparagus.
Our typical ending of the humongous Thanksgiving dinner were Polish deserts such as paczki filled with a sweet jam.
Even though we'd travel to Detroit on holidays, Mom still cooked up our own home meal for the festive holidays. She hated turkey meat but she loved the stuffings from a good turkey meal. Mom actually preferred a nice chicken dinner.
Cooking our style chicken was an eventful process. Dad and I would walk the 20 or so blocks from our home on Carton Street to Hockstead's Poultry Shop near Pierson Road on North Saginaw Street. We had no car. The hike was at a small incline for the entire two-mile distance. Upon arrival at the chicken market Dad would carefully examine the live, cackling chickens.
"Let me see your Bantam roosters," dad said to the man behind the counter, his white apron spattered with blood. He looked frightful. Dad pointed to an area with a dozen chickens strutting about.
"No, I think I better stick with a Red Rock hen." I never did learn what the magic criteria were for his final selection. But once the hen was chosen the butcher grabbed the chicken's legs and quickly decapitated it.
After the blood drained he'd hold the dead carcass over a noisy rotating machine which ripped off the feathers. The bird got wrapped and we carried it home where mom took over the balance of preparations.
Mom first cut open the chicken to remove the innards consisting of the heart, liver and neck. Then she'd light the gas stove's front burner and singe off the hairs of the fowl by careful rotating the chicken over the flames. The smell was putrid.
Then Mom would place the bird in a large pot of cold water to soak for several hours, usually overnight. The chicken was boiled the next morning.
For years I ate nothing but boiled, white-colored chicken. Once in a while Mom or Dad would brown a few of the pieces in a skillet as a special treat. The innards were cooked separately and helped make the chicken broth.
The holiday morning special breakfast mom cooked for us were pancakes. She called them pancakes, but a modern-day chef would most likely categorize them as crepes.
As I aged and began to understand the meaning and value of special occasions, I learned why Thanksgiving Day was important to my parents. It was their wedding anniversary date.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Bernie Sadowski is a freelance writer living in Magnolia.[[In-content Ad]]
