STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. — If past Thanksgivings haven’t traumatized us, they’ve only made us stronger. Welcome to the English-Irish-Scandinavian side of my family’s table, a lasagna-free zone presented Norman Rockwell-style in East Brunswick, New Jersey.
The stories here are true. And I did ask family for their blessings on sharing details of Thanksgiving at my Aunt Grace’s. The exercise assured the veracity of such memories — really, it’s stuff you cannot make up — and it gave us a good laugh thinking of such times. Aside from the WKRP in Cincinnati “Turkeys Away” episode, this chat has become my annual Thanksgiving tradition.
With that, I deliver unto you the joy of cooking McMullen-style, so to speak. The practice did not come easily to my mother’s side of the family. In fact, my dad dreaded their version of the holidays — Aunt Grace’s turkey and Uncle Wesley’s humor, both served up dry with lots of corn.
Although hotly anticipated by the Anglo-Saxon side of the family was my grandmother’s famed dish and gift to the gathering — Mold.
“Do you like my Mold?” my grandmother would ask us individually, proudly showing off the creation, bits of fruit suspended in a green or orange Jell-O ring. Sometimes this thing included mini-marshmallows.
“Pamela, you didn’t compliment my Mold,” she’d command.
Mold was perfection only to be rivaled by one of Aunt Grace’s triumphs on the table — jellied cranberry sauce showing off the ribbings of the can from whence it came. It was culinary art birthed onto a plate with the gentle tap of a knife.
Cranberry jelly can be eased out of the can to show off the ribbings of the can, if one so desires. (Staten Island Advance/Pamela Silvestri)
The feast began officially with Uncle Wesley saying grace: “Tweet tweet. Thanks for the meat. Yay, God!” followed by a World War II vet’s gleeful announcement to “Dig in!”
The Uncle Wes jokes were too much. I would laugh so hard my grandmother would accuse me of being punch drunk. By the end of dinner, the jokes turned off-color or political and people disappeared quietly from the table. My father would be the first to go when topics touched on anything remotely negative toward Italians, teachers, teachers’ contracts, the United Federation of Teachers, or Albert Shanker.
In the hour of Mold clean up and making way for pumpkin pie, I slipped into Aunt Grace’s bedroom “vanity table.” She had dozens of stick-like sample cologne bottles and perfumes with fancy atomizers. In the drawers were makeup items by what seemed like the hundreds — lipstick tubes, eye shadow, face powder, blushers and nail polish — little girl heaven. I tried on just about everything. With fumes from “Youth Dew” mingled with Love’s Baby Soft we drove home with the windows open.
Turkeys away…for real. (Staten Island Advance/Jason Paderon) Jason Paderon
One year I set all the alarm clocks for random times throughout the house. I thought it would appeal to my Uncle Wes’ sense of humor, but it gave my Aunt a nervous tick. Badum bum.
Now that’s a line my cousin Tim would appreciate. He always laughed at my dumb jokes and, after the Alarm-Gate incident, warned me while chuckling pretty heartily, “Don’t mess with the time.”
I won’t. In fact I’m grateful for it. Although Grace and Wes have left us. My grandmother took her Mold recipe to heaven at the age of 103. Tim died in a car accident last January. Still, the soul of Thanksgiving dinner will always be with us.
Pamela Silvestri is Advance Food Editor. She can be reached at [email protected].