Thanksgiving is for the Birds
Tales of an Inadvertently Vegan Holiday
Foolishly, many years ago, I took it upon myself to cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner. Just as everyone else I knew was settling down and starting families, I had gotten a divorce and was on my own. For some now conveniently forgotten reason that would have nothing to do with avoiding my family, I wasn’t going to see my parents and siblings until after the start of the new year and had decided to host a dinner for my friends who were also facing the holidays alone. I am not a professional chef or particularly keen on cooking for a multitude. I have simply always loved Thanksgiving. No gifts. No pressure. Just sharing a lovingly prepared meal and giving thanks.
Thanksgiving is everything a holiday should ever hope to be, and my little group of lone stragglers would not suffer the lack of it on my watch.
With joy and determination in my heart, I went to the grocery store and made my way down the aisle to the frozen turkeys. There I paused for longer than I might have anticipated, looking at the rounded, plastic wrapped birds. A kind of odd paralysis began to set in that had nothing to do with determining the proper sized bird for my group. The turkeys just seemed so… big. I mean, they had real presence. It occurred to me they were roughly the same size and weight as my little niece, born that summer, whose first Christmas I would be missing. I cleared my mind, hoisted a frosty carcass into my shopping cart and rolled on. The turkey was far too large for my little group, but I wanted to overdo everything and provide an abundant feast.
Still, my mind returned to that frozen little body all alone in the cart. It seemed so tragic. So hopeless. So hard. So dead. I rounded a corner to peruse the spice aisle and the icy bird hurtled from one side to another of its metal cage. I turned past the dried spices, the pie crusts, the deep fried onion bits, the canned cranberries and aluminum foil — all things I had intended to buy. But my cart still only had its unfortunate and solitary occupant.
I started to think about how, like humans, birds live to congregate. They are flock creatures. Like I am a flock creature. Like I am gathering my flock for a dinner party. How separate and lonely and terrified this turkey must have been before its final harrowing moments.
At some point, much to the displeasure of the people behind me in the midst of their own frantic Thanksgiving shopping, I realized I had stopped pushing my cart forward and was instead bawling in the middle of the aisle, staring at the turkey, lying down there all alone and now starting to thaw.
I had been wandering up and down the aisles for some time by now, fixated completely on the poor, forsaken creature. As the nights turned cold and winter loomed ahead, did her family miss her? Or was it a he? Or had everyone been massacred and was that all of them lying there like newborns in a sub zero maternity ward? Was that the whole rafter there, in the grocery morgue?
SO awful! Too awful to contemplate. But now the images were linked and there was no return. I remember blurting out a request to a nearby, confused employee to “please return her to her grave” as I bolted from the store empty handed.
On my way out, across the street was a small organic produce market. They had a beautiful, beckoning display of fruits and veggies out in front: Stalks of brussel sprouts I might steam and serve with lemon and… something. Who cares? It will be amazing! Crisp persimmons and pomegranates like sweet jewels. Cauliflower, asparagus, parsnips, yams, rutabaga, turnips, red and golden beets, sweet onions and multicolored carrots for roasting. Or adorable baby purple, gold and russet potatoes with chives and roasted garlic on a bed of baby arugula. Fresh babies! Happy babies!
Winter, acorn, kambocha, and delicato squashes for soup. Drizzles of balsamic reduction. Or pomegranate reduction. Or cranberry reduction. Sauteed shitakes with shallots and parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Where to begin?! My mind was racing.
Wild rice with portobellos and french beans with toasted pine nuts and pecans sprinkled over a sauce of vegan cream cheese and veggie bouillon base. I soon forgot all about my tears and was filling a basket.
THIS was a bounty! Everything was so fresh, so colorful, so full of life and beauty.
I bought loaves of fresh seeded sourdough and still warm rye bread, sea salt and olive oil to make croutons for stuffing that didn’t need to be stuffed anywhere but into happy faces. I was absolutely beaming. I went home and began to prep and chop and rice and roast and puree.
And I never ate meat again.
My friends know me well enough not to listen when I say I don’t need anything, so even the fact I totally forgot to make dessert was forgiven. Everyone brought something and it was an absolutely magnificent meal with leftovers for days.
That was the first year I felt entirely sincere in giving thanks for the Thanksgiving meal. No guilt. No sadness or willfully ignorant attempt at justification for some poor soul’s unwilling sacrifice. Just love and grace and gratitude. No judgement for others choices, just a deeply satisfying resonance as I settled into my own.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we all decided to walk off the meal and hike up the hill through the trees to the clearing above the house. Off in the distance, within sight of beautiful Mount Tamalpais, I was sure I could hear a family of wild turkeys, chortling their way deep into the forest.
