Creamed Onions
We do creamed onions, too. We buy a lot of ping-pong sized white boiling onions, and then we have to peel them according to my father’s way. This means taking off enough of the outside layers that there is no possibility of any untoward items crossing the palate and ruining the savory delectation blah blah blah.
He’s tough. My father. Hypercritical. Probably the reason why I am the way I am and relatives are afraid of that dreaded sneer that appears when I don’t like something. I don’t even know I’m doing it.
You cover the onions in water and simmer them for a half hour to forty-five minutes. They’l be nice and soft when you push a fork in them, but you don’t them so soft they disintegrate upon contact.
You then drain the water, and, quickly, while the heat is still there, throw in enough butter that it kind of melts all over. Grate some black pepper and apply the salt and finally, the coup de grace: heavy cream. None of that light stuff, people. This is Thanksgiving, after all.
Gently swirl the cream around so all the onions are covered but they don’t fall apart.
At my house, in the tradition of my mother and my grandmother, the onions are served in their own shallow dish—three or four per dish, according to each person’s desire. They are unbelievably delicious, and if there weren’t so much turkey and other foods, and if there were about five pies for dessert, plus an assortment of nuts, fruits, and candies, the onions would be gone in a flash.
Fruit cup
This is another tradition, and many guests are recruited before the meal to help prepare the dish. Did I mention my family is particular? Each orange and each grapefruit must have each half piece of fruit cut out so there will be no membranes to mar the experience. Apples, pears, kiwis, pineapple, mango—all must be liberated from their skins and cut into little pieces the size of a dime. All are thrown into a bowl, together with juices.
No bananas! My father and I are quite discomfited by bananas. In fact, it’s more than a discomfitment, but let’s not get graphic, ok? It is thanksgiving, after all.
Finally, a few moments before serving, the half-thawed frozen berries and peaches prepared last summer are thrown in. This gives a sharp coldness to the entire mixture. Again, special dishes used only for fruit cup and used only once a year are taken carefully from the crystal shelves, and the fruit is ladled in, placed in the center of each guests’ plate, and the hordes are called to dinner. Or supper. Whatever.
There are various statements of thanks, but everyone is really scooting their behinds over their chairs, as they stare at the fruit cup. Finally, all thanks and prayers completed, the woman of the house (my mother, usually) lifts her spoon…..
Whoa. Where is she? As usual she’s disappeared into the kitchen for some item of imagined importance, and the throngs call for her. She reappears, taking off her apron, and looking innocently as if she has no idea what the fuss is all about.
Convinced to sit down, she arranges herself, and looking around the table, picks up her spoon. Simultaneously, twenty other spoons slip inside the crystal cup, and withdraw, lifting that first bite of thanksgiving to twenty other mouths.
The crisp, cold sweetness of mingled fruit lights up the taste buds of every single person, preparing everyone for the feast to come. For some, more is offered upon the devination of the crystal depths. Others have different chores—bringing in the other food, and carving the turkey.
Don’t get me started about that.
