At my parents' house, we didn't have Thanksgiving dinner. Too much upheaval these last couple days. Sunday evening, I will bring over a pecan pie, help my sister mash potatoes and heat up gravy. I will carve the turkey. Probably eat a lot of the skin.
My father will not be with us. By Sunday, hopefully, he will be in a nursing home. My mother will be eating Thanksgiving dinner with us on Sunday. My mother's memory isn't great, so she, after a few days, will start thinking that my father has died. We will remind her that he's still alive, many times a day.
Tonight, I have a poem I wrote a few years ago for Thanksgiving. I've put it on this blog before, but I think it's time to share it again.
Saint Marty is very grateful to his mother and father for all the opportunities they gave him over the years.
Pecan Pie
by: Martin Achatz
Mix eggs, sugar and Karo,
melted butter, vanilla from Mexico
in a bowl until it all runs
yellow as corn silk. Add pecans,
one-and-a-quarter cups. Fold
them into the gold syrup,
the way a farmer folds
manure into a field of hay
or my son folds a Tootsie Roll
under his tongue, plants it there,
lets it feed the furrows
of his young body. Pour this filling
into a shell, edges fluted
by my wife's hands, crimped
between thumb and forefinger
to peaks and troughs of dough.
Bake at 350 degrees.
Forty-five minutes to an hour.
You'll know when it's done.
The house will smell
brown and warm and sweet.
Dip a butter knife blade
into the center of the pie.
If it comes out hot and clean,
take the pie out of the oven. Put it
on the front porch to cool.
You can leave it there overnight.
It'll be waiting in the morning.
Cover it with a hand towel. Carry
it to your parents' house,
where your mother asks you
"Is it cold outside?"
over and over as you cut
the pie. "Yes," you tell her.
And "yes" when she asks again.
It is cold this Thanksgiving.
And, yes, pecan pie is her favorite.
Give her a large slice,
with extra Cool Whip
and a hot cup of coffee.
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