For my first post, I'd like to share with you a fond food memory of my first remembered Thanksgiving.
My great aunt and uncle in Cleveland had the honors that year of holding the feast. I was four years old and just another of the little cousins in their Sunday-best seated at the crowded kids' table. I was starved to death but waiting patiently with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the shelves of horse figurines that lined the walls of the dining room.
The house was buzzing: Uncle was roaming the house in a cowboy hat and bolo tie, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. I remember the high cackles of the women cooking in the kitchen and the guffaws of the men sitting in the living room around the wood-paneled black and white television. The kids table was all shouting and giggles, pigtails and awkward hair-parts. The kitchen door swung open and our babbling stopped.
My aunt's pungent perfume wafted around my eyes as she circled the table, dishing out an armload of heaping styrofoam plates. I got a slab of white turkey touching the mashed potatoes and covered in gravy, crispy brown stuffing, sweet red cranberry sauce and assorted fruit pieces suspended in green jello. All I remember is the taste of the jello; it was delicious.
