Thankful for sweet love, not sweet potatoes
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- December 4, 2023
- 352
This year I wanted an old-fashioned Thanksgiving with all the trimmings. I wanted pies made from scratch, a big bird stuffed with Mom’s infamous dressing and basted to perfection. I wanted a giant Greek salad, shrimp cocktail, delicious veggies and homemade muffins. I planned to set the table with my best china with silver chargers. I had it all planned to the letter: how Thanksgiving was going to happen. You know what they say, “We plan, and God laughs.” That wasn’t far from the truth.
I think for your average 66-year-old, I’m doing pretty well. I teach full-time, cook meals from scratch, walk my faithful dog 2 miles nearly every day, grocery shop, clean my house top to bottom, and enjoy writing and reading along with knitting and crochet in the evening. I live a busy, full life.
But a few weeks ago, I noticed my left foot was hurting. I distinctly recall hopping onto the grass near Walmart when a car came roaring around the bend. Zuzu escaped any injury, but I thought I had sprained my ankle, and then a swelling around that bone made me feel certain about the self- diagnosis. Like most hard-headed people, I just wrapped the ankle and kept going. I even walked daily for a week or so before admitting the truth: I needed to see a professional, so I made an appointment at Wooster Foot and Ankle Center.
The young doctor said the preliminary X-ray showed no break, but he did think there was a sprain. That was when he fitted me with a boot that looked, well, gigantic. I clunked around campus that first day between three buildings, hoping this malady would soon pass. And then my sciatica started to kick up. I guess it was the difference in the length of my two legs that caused the issue because of the enormous boot. I have endured my fair share of pain in this life, but I think it is safe to say nothing, other than labor, can touch the pain of sciatica. I discarded the boot, stopped walking my dog and even ordered my groceries online.
The next week I was scheduled to see my doc again. This time he said the second set of X-rays showed a hairline fracture in my left foot in the metatarsal area. Since I have inherited Mom’s osteoporosis, I was not surprised. Two years ago I broke a toe. Last summer my left thumb suffered a fracture. I feared this was the beginning of something truly horrid. And then I pictured poor Mom at the bottom of the basement staircase years ago with the femur fracture at the hip socket.
Nevertheless, I grabbed last-minute groceries and began planning the meal. I begged off my daughter’s invitation to her Columbus condo and asked the kids to come home. Then I began to survey my purchases. The turkey looked too small, scrawny even. The pumpkin pies I’d baked, both gluten and dairy free, tasted oddly deficient, though I’d made them many other times with great success. I strapped on my boot and hobbled around the kitchen trying to make Mom’s stuffing while ignoring the pumpkin pie that was not quite right.
We gathered on Saturday — my kids, their partners and the guy I’m dating. My daughter made fluffy sweet potatoes that were delicious, not to mention an apple crumble I could have eaten in entirety. My son and his wife brought a perfectly lovely kale salad. I made a shrimp cocktail, stuffing and turkey that I guess passed muster, and two kinds of muffins. The kids raved over every morsel.
When the kids were young, we ate together every night and always shared our highs and lows of the day. I listened to their sadness as well as their successes. And now my 31-year-old son and 29-year-old daughter gazed at me across the table. The 20s were nearly behind us, as were the teens, the tweens, elementary school and early childhood. And no matter how badly my foot hurt from all the hobbling around creating what I think was just an average meal, my family was anything but average.
I remember my mom crying one Thanksgiving over a turkey. What I wouldn’t give to sit with her and my dad again today. To heck with the turkey. Because what we’re really thankful for isn’t the bird, is it? Nor the pies. It’s the sweet loves of our life, our precious children.
Leslie Pearce-Keating can be emailed at leslieannpearce@gmail.com.