By Edith Morgan
This was a strange Thanksgiving year for the traditional feast: Many of us stayed home, and many of us gathered in small groups at the home of family or relatives. Of course, we all had bought and prepared more than we needed. Are we still afraid that there will not be enough, even after getting stuck every year with all kinds of leftovers, and eating them in various forms for the following week?
I spent the afternoon and evenings with one of my families, and this was the first year I did not have to rise at 6 a.m. on Thursday to stuff and put a turkey in the oven. And it was the first year we had a small turkey, only 11 pounds, unlike the usual 24-pound monster we have had every year. There were only six of us at the table, yet we had such a varied array of side dishes, as well as the obligatory pies (five different kinds), with only one made from scratch.
And this year no football extravaganza, so we ended up playing several rounds of “Rummykub” instead of being glued to the TV set. We really did not dwell upon the reason for the holiday – although I had given it a lot of thought before the actual feast time.
But this year there was an added dimension: many of us became aware that this festival is not reason for rejoicing for the indigenous inhabitants of this continent. And when I came home loaded with leftovers, I felt bad that I had so much, too much, while there are soup kitchens, food banks, and many other sharing activities going on around this city, trying to feed those who were too poor, displaced, recently out of a job, or evicted.
Because of the virus and my age, I could not go out and share. So the very least I can do is not to waste the leftovers and continue to be grateful that I have enough food for the coming week …