A week ago, out of left field—more like the bleachers—my wife said she’d like to make, or cater, a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for our family of four. I figured it was the shard of an early-morning dream, since we haven’t had such a spread since 2006 or so. Many reasons for that: cooking a turkey, and too many accompaniments, is time-consuming (and a drag to clean up) and the reward for that work is 30 minutes of picking at food around the table. Also, as I’ve aged and eliminated all butter, dairy, processed sugar and fried food from my diet, such an elaborate meal—which I’d be tempted to throw out caution and indulge fully—would leave me wrecked the next day. And, although it was a feature of my semi-Norman Rockwell holidays as a kid—I still rue the day my mom’s huge platter decorated with a turkey was smashed during a move—leftovers are better left over, as in straight to the trash.
When we lived in New York, the kids loved Thanksgiving dinner, usually at home, but once at a Four Seasons “vacation” 50 blocks uptown, including a Radio City Music Hall presentation of a cartoon character I now forget. On occasion we’d travel to Malibu to see my mother-in-law, who always cooked for days to accommodate 30 guests. (Sitting at the kids table was annoying, but as a guest you follow the rules.) My only job was to pick limes from the trees outside to make fruity rum or tequila cocktails. Melissa’s “roughneck” grandfather Buzz (one of a kind: a pilot, story-teller, Republican and an all-around engaging gentleman), egged me on as I played Johnny Appleseed, or Paul Bunyan, waiting for that first drink after, in his generation’s parlance, “the sun was over the yardarm.”
A few years after moving to Baltimore, we ditched the traditional T-Day, and went to allegedly “fancy” hotel buffets around town. It was always a cheerful outing—on Thanksgiving, the boys were permitted to swear until hoarse, and though I’ve no idea how that tradition started, it was funny as hell—but the grub, steamed and under lights, wasn’t much to remember. Except for the shoofly pie. And then we went top-notch, a steak or fish dinner at the Prime Rib, a Baltimore institution from 1965 that remains in business, and only recently relaxed the tie-and-jacket requirement. That lasted four splendid years, but on the final occasion my gluttony—a jumbo crabmeat salad, sirloin and deep-fried potato skins all but invisible for the cheese and sour cream—was an “all debts due” queasy gut the next day, and since then we’ve played it safe with Indian food. As is apparent, yours truly is the big old fly in the ointment here, but in truth, no one else minds our eccentric, but not “un-American” flight from the Lydia Maria Child bit of whimsy about the holiday. (Get the noose ready, since I like the folklore about the Pilgrims and Indians breaking bread in 1621, despite do-gooders going Goofy—when in a foul mood—if the name Plymouth or Mayflower is mentioned.)
Not long after I sold Baltimore’s City Paper, I was in Venice on Thanksgiving Day, and though it was pouring my friend Joan and I reveled in the comfort of Harry’s Bar, sipped several Bellinis, and a had a long meal, including turkey (bland), which was incongruously paired with a simple pasta and Bolognese sauce, and two bottles of superb red wine. It was more civilized, or less rowdy, than a couple of years prior, when I was the guest of Phyllis Orrick and Jamie Day at their Ruxton home. The intentions were earnest: Phyllis and I bought a fat goose the day before at South Baltimore’s Cross Street Market, along with the ingredients for sides, but the two p.m. dinner got off to a late start because the three of us had put our beaks in several bottles of Pouille-Fuisse too early; the goose was burnt, the vegetables turned to cinder, and we wrote it off, kept up with the vino and played Monopoly.
And, as it turns out, in 2025 lamb vindaloo and a movie is the Smith plan.
The accompanying picture, of Michael Gentile and me in New Orleans long ago, has nothing to do with Thanksgiving. But I’d rather have two Lucky Dogs than turkey with sausage and chestnut stuffing.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: the term “steampunk” is coined; Martin Amis’ Einstein’s Monsters, William Boyd’s The New Confessions, T.C. Boyle’s World’s End, and Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines are published; Penelope Lively wins the Booker Prize; William Casey steps down as CIA Director; Ruthless Records is founded; Oliver Stone wins Best Director Oscar; Marcus Mumford is born and Woody Herman dies; Johnny Marr quits The Smiths; Kevin Costner and Gene Hackman appear in No Way Out; The Pixies release Surfer Rosa; The Pet Shop Boys’ “It’s a Sin” and The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” high on the charts; American Bandstand censors The Beastie Boys; and the Edmonton Oilers win the Stanley Cup.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023