Prep

I’m about to go wash up a bunch of berries and peel a couple of pomegranates in preparation for tomorrow. I don’t have any big serving trays, though; it’s probably best to just cart everything — washed and cut — to the parents’ and then commandeer some of their many stray serving platters.

I was thinking today about a memory I have of a Thanksgiving Day back when I was, gosh, I had to be 11 or 12 — right at that age when you’re still into pretending but you’re starting to grow out of it bit by bit and there’s a growing resentment at having to sit at the kids’ table. I remember the weather was not quite bitterly cold yet, but it was overcast and windy and quite chilly. I was wearing a sweater striped horizontally with yellow, blue, orange, and green, with matching red stretchpants and a red headband. And, more than likely, white Keds. (At least, that’s what I’m wearing in this memory; there’s no telling if that’s true. But the rest of the memory definitely is.)

My cousin, brother and I spent the afternoon outside on my parents’ deck, pretending that it was a giant ship. I was the captain. The waters were choppy and I kept having to keep orders to my crew to keep us afloat.

Inside, the women cooked and cleaned and the men sat in the den, flipping through channels and watching football.

That’s one of the few Thanksgivings I can really remember, a memory so bright and clear that it’s hard to believe it’s as old as it is. I’m not really sure why it has stuck with me the way it did.