Turkey Trauma

I can’t remember how many Thanksgiving dinners I have cooked in my lifetime, but it’s close to forty out of the forty-three years Frank and I have been married. I’ve got it down to a science. I cooked my first turkey less than two weeks after we were married. We had just moved from Pennsylvania to the army base in Lawton, Oklahoma, and were far away from any family. I roasted a twelve pound turkey, and learned that my new husband could gobble leftover turkey six days in a row and love every bite.

Frank spent three months learning how to call in artillery fire before leaving for Viet Nam. The next year I spent the holiday with my parents while Frank fought in the war. We have spent Thanksgiving together ever since.

We raised our five kids quite a distance from grandparents, aunts and uncles, and so we often celebrated without benefit of extended family. Now we have lots of grandkids, and I’m happy to say, we get to spend Thanksgiving with our own extended family. When I’m feeling stressed about shopping, cooking and the holiday rush that begins in November, I try to remember that it’s not about turkey. It’s about family.