How a Humble Persimmon Cookie Saved Thanksgiving

It's 1971 or so, mid-morning, late November in a southern California suburb. The house already smells like turkey, even though we have dinner well after dark to accommodate my mother's desire to set a perfect (and perfectly fussy) table, while also allowing sufficient time for everything to burn to a crisp.

Safely blended in to the family-room couch, I can hear the old graniteware roaster hit the floor, followed quickly by a few harsh words. Next, she reminds herself to get out the "good" stemware. (Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, this conflagration is gonna be a dress affair.) I am happily distanced--for now--from the gathering doom that is dinner,

Daddy chats with Aunt Katherine in Pennsylvania ("I'll sharpen the knives in a few minutes, Sunshine. I'm on LONG DISTANCE!"), reminiscing and probably wishing he were there, back in the land of Sisters Who Can Cook. When he asks her "How many inches did you get last night?" I know it's time to start angling for a "trip to the snow" in our local mountains. I sulk, jealously, about my distant cousins' "real" (snowy) holidays.

Neenie opens the door to her best friend Helen, my "other grandmother," who has arrived reeking of Chantilly cologne and all the latest gossip from their Masonic auxiliaries. Her smelly, high-pitched teacup poodle wears bows on its butt and will annoy my passive, sleeping cat until the cat finally gets in trouble and is tossed outside (there is no justice). The dog will barf on my parents' new shag carpet.

Mother grits her teeth and purrs smilingly through it all, but hooo-boy, Daddy's gonna catch hell later (there is still no justice).

But Grandma Helen has a small, foil-covered plate in her hand. As she asks me to put it on the buffet table, she winks at me. Mother gives me The Look, the one that signals "If you so much as THINK about pulling that foil up, young lady, you're done for." However, Grandma Helen only winks when there's a purpose. I am hopeful.

The day drags on. I find things to do, maybe walk over to Vicki's or up to Cheryl's, until at long last, it's time for dinner. Daddy has intervened, and some parts of the meal aren't fully incinerated. I am secretly thrilled that the Mrs. Smith's frozen mince pie was cremated--I hate that stuff and won't develop a proper appreciation for mincemeat pie until much later, when I taste a real one. Daddy got to the kitchen in time to save the Mrs. Smith's frozen pumpkin pie--the one I really like. My Daddy is a hero.

We survive the meal. We always survive the meal. I don't know how Daddy always arranges to lose the wishbone game to me, but somehow he does. I get to go to the snow! Soon! I get to invite Cheryl and Vicki!

 But the best thing of all--the very best part of Thanksgiving--is discovering that Grandma Helen "accidentally misplaced" a second foil-covered plate of persimmon cookies in my room.

Epilogue: When Grandma Helen died many years later, I was married and a mother. Her most precious legacy to me was a Chantilly-scented copy of her persimmon cookie recipe, which I will serve on Mother's early-married plates this Thanksgiving. We will use the good stemware.