Tag Archives: traditions

Thanksgiving

Trunk Turkey and Alice’s Restaurant

Here are two Thanksgiving traditions: one that I no longer have but fondly remember, and the other I still do that day.

Here’s the first. Driving with six kids 2½ hours through the woods to grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving got old. So, when I finally had the nerve, I informed our extended family we were staying put at our home, but they were welcome to join us.

My parents took us up on our offer. They didn’t mind making the drive. But my mother didn’t trust that I would roast a proper turkey, so she volunteered to bring the cooked bird. I could make the rest of the meal. My mother was indeed an excellent cook of anything that had feathers while it was still alive. And besides she wanted to contribute something to the meal. I said yes even though the smell of roasting turkey is such a savory thing.

The first time, however, the kids and I were surprised when my father opened the trunk of their car and carried an aluminum pan of cut-up turkey into the house. What no beautiful bird on the table? Not this year.

One of the kids – I don’t remember which one – was the one who called it Grandma’s Trunk Turkey. Of course, not to grandmother’s face. But the name stuck.

I should say my late mother was a school cafeteria lady in those days. Serving food cut up in aluminum pans was part of the job. Her trunk turkey, however, was delicious. So it was Grandma’s Trunk Turkey for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner if my parents came to our home.

Now for the second tradition — listening to a recording of Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant. For over 18 minutes, Arlo recounts in word and song how he got arrested for dumping trash illegally after a raucous Thanksgiving feast hosted by Alice Brock in an old church, which gets him arrested and convicted, a status he uses to get out of being drafted to Vietnam. I was lucky enough to hear him sing it in Taos, when we lived there.

Recently when we were in Stockbridge, we saw the restaurant that used to belong to Alice Brock. That’s the doorway in the photo above. Note the sign for Alice Ave. (By the way, Arlo announced Alice’s death at 83 on Nov. 22.) I will play Alice’s Restaurant at some point while I am cooking the meal Thursday for what will be a full house of family. 

As for the turkey, I’ve done my research on the best way to cook this turkey. I now have a great pan and a high-tech thermometer, plus a daughter to supervise. But part of me secretly wants me to put the cooked bird in the trunk of my car and take if for a spin before dinner. But only my mother could get away with that.

And a final note: I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I will spare you the list, but near the top are those who read what I write, including my books and these posts. Thank you.

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Christmas

Remembering Christmases Way Past

The first Christmas I actually remember happened when I was a kid too young to go to Midnight Mass. My grandfather, Manny stayed home to babysit my cousins and me while our extended family walked to the church down the street.

Vovô, as I called him, was my father’s father and not one of those playful grandfathers. I just remember him opening a bottle of red wine and consuming it while we waited for the family’s return. He had the radio on, probably the Portuguese station that he loved. Having immigrated from the Azores, he thought the Portuguese singers were the best and he would try to demonstrate that by serenading me. Anyway, we kids were safe with Vovô until Mass was over and the gift exchange began.

Most of my Christmases as a child involved visiting. My parents, especially my father, were very sociable people although they never held parties at our home. The one exception was Christmas Eve when people would make the rounds. Most my father knew through the local athletic club. It was the only time alcohol was served in our home. I remember as a kid waiting to see if anyone would show up. That tradition faded out. 

Another was going to people’s homes late at night and singing outside their doors until we were let inside. They were expected to feed the group of singers and I presume offer drink. We sleepy little kids went along. But that ended after a few years. 

Yes, we received gifts from Santa until we realized he didn’t exist. I learned that when I happened to be in the attic and found unwrapped gifts intended for my younger sister.

We became full-time visitors on Christmas. For years, we had an early dinner with our grandmother Angela, who came to this country from the Portuguese island of Madeira when she was just a teenager. Her food had a rather foreign flavor. My sister and I said she must use a secret spice. Then we visited our aunt and uncle next door — their sons were childhood friends we saw every weekend. They were on my mother’s side. Then we were onto my father’s side, visiting the homes of his sisters. I can’t remember why, but one home we called Devil’s Island.

As for presents, we didn’t get a lot, understandably for the time. I recall when I was 12 being asked by my mother what I wanted. I honestly didn’t know but I pointed at a large doll dressed in a taffeta gown. I was well past the stage of playing with dolls but it seems I wasn’t ready to let my childhood go. 

Over the many years, I have had a variety of Christmases, including a few awkward ones. Of course, that can happen because the holiday involves real life. 

There were many times when we lived in Taos, New Mexico that it was just Hank and I, which was fine. We gave up having a tree and pared down our gift-giving. But we got to enjoy what that area has to offer for the holidays, including spending Christmas Eve watching the bonfires at Taos Pueblo and then having a drink at the Taos Inn. Sometimes family came to experience it.

Now that we have returned to New England, we spend the holiday with our children, granddaughters, and the extended family. Fun times for sure. I wish the same for you.

ABOUT THE PHOTO ABOVE: That’s a chubby me only eight months old at my grandparents’ home where I lived with my parents for the first few years of my life.

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