A Letter to My Son: Why We Had Thanksgiving at Waffle House
NOVEMBER 2018
An Open Letter to My Son on His First Thanksgiving
OR
Why We Had Thanksgiving at Waffle House
I’m watching you on the baby monitor while I write this; a fleece onesie-covered leg and one tiny foot poking out of the blanket, your chest rising and falling with the lull of sleep, completely content in the little world that surrounds you. Today was your first Thanksgiving, and nothing went like I had planned. You’ll learn soon enough that your Mama is a planner, and everything about this day was structured to create a memorable first Thanksgiving, with pictures of you in a flannel shirt and a bib that said something like “Mama’s Little Turkey.” I had bought a table runner and placemats to go with the coral dishes I had chosen, small blue mason jars holding succulent plants and a name card would stand at each person’s place, a blue vase already stood in the middle of the table ready to be filled with the sunflower arrangement I would select when I picked up the preordered holiday meal on Thanksgiving morning. I had cocktail napkins that said “Thankful” and matching dinner napkins covered in fall leaves. I practiced the table setting and stacked every plate, cup, napkin, and piece of silverware on the buffet in the dining room.
It has been a strange time for your family and this holiday was going to be hard on us all for different reasons, and I was glad to have both of our mothers with us during this time. Our family traditionally gathered at my Nana’s house in Mississippi, but this year there was too much heartbreak and separation, and we were in Phoenix, so far away from trying to rally anyone together to make it seem like it always had. So, we had invited your grandmothers and your Aunt Jessie to be with us here in Arizona. We would start a new tradition, and it was going to be fun, dammit. I was determined. I wanted everything to be perfect for your first Thanksgiving, and I didn’t want any of us to spend all day in the kitchen cooking, so I had ordered a full meal from Whole Foods: a roasted turkey, cranberry salad, cornbread dressing, creamed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, and a pumpkin pie. The only thing I was going to make with my own two hands was a sweet potato casserole for you and a chocolate pie for your daddy. Well, CiCi was going to make the chocolate pie – I had tried before and failed miserably - but I had already bought all of the ingredients for her to make it. You love sweet potatoes, and I wanted to be able to make one thing that I knew you would love. Guest rooms were ready, the house was clean, everything was organized and planned just so. All of a sudden it was Tuesday and your CiCi (my mom) was set to touch down at 8:30, and your GiGi and Aunt Jessie (your Daddy’s mom and sister) were scheduled for the 11:30 flight.
But then CiCi called and feared she had caught one of the many kinds of crud that goes around this time of year and she tearfully told me that she wasn’t going to be able to come. She was so disappointed; she wanted so much to be with you on your Thanksgiving, and she wanted to make that chocolate pie. Then your Aunt Jessie wasn’t able to get on the plane from Nashville – she too had come down with something the day of the flight and wasn’t going to be able to come either. GiGi boarded the plane and arrived late Tuesday night.
Yesterday morning I walked into the dining room to rethink the table, and I stood for several moments staring at the dishes and décor I had stationed, ready to create a perfect Thanksgiving table, one that would certainly photograph well for a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ social media post. I looked at the napkins that said “Thankful’ and at a little sign that said, “Gather here with grateful hearts.” Then I thought about all the food we had ordered, enough food to feed for Thanksgiving lunch and several rounds of leftovers over the next two days, even enough I knew that I would shamefully end up throwing some of it away. I looked back into the kitchen where you were sitting playing on the floor with a spoon and several plastic containers. You looked up and saw me then, and you grinned the widest smile, proudly displaying your three new teeth, pulling yourself up on the cabinet to standing and then taking a few steps towards me before plopping back on the floor. You crawled the rest of the way to me and threw your arms around my neck when I bent to pick you up. You smelled like the cinnamon oatmeal you had eaten for breakfast, and I decided that I wanted something better and more meaningful for your first Thanksgiving.
Last night after you were asleep, I Googled ‘homeless shelter near me,’ and called the first number on the list. A recording attempted to direct me to the right extension, and I sat down listening to the options, thinking about how I could be making a very different kind of call to this same number, looking for shelter for our family if there was nowhere else to go. Thanksgiving dinner would be the last thing on my mind, and I felt silly at all of the planning I had put into one meal. One silly meal. I reached someone on the phone and explained that we had quite a bit of food and not as many guests as expected, and could we bring the food to the shelter on Thanksgiving Day? Perhaps there was someone who needed it there? The woman on the phone explained that everyone at the shelter had been donated a meal from a local food bank…all except one family who had just come into the shelter that evening. A couple and two young children. They would have nothing special to eat for Thanksgiving without our food. I told your Daddy and GiGi my hopefully plan, and we agreed that this was a better way for the food to be enjoyed, and we would find a restaurant after we delivered the food.
It’s been a while since we’ve lived in a big city, and I guess I thought that preordering food meant that we could whip into Whole Foods, someone would load the dinner into the back of the car, and we would be on our way. Everything was paid, and we were ready to go, or so I thought. Everyone else had devised the same plan obviously, and I found myself trudging through a two-hour line to pick up the preordered food while you slept in your car seat in the car with Daddy and GiGi. The line moved slowly, winding through the produce section, inching so slowly. Nat King Cole’s calming timber wasn’t working its magic on everyone in the line, and I felt for the Whole Food’s employees, each one most likely wishing he had put in a time off request sooner than the coworkers who did. Your Daddy joined me to wait, and we tried to guess what everyone’s story around us was on this Thanksgiving Day. No one looked happy, and after an hour I laughed to myself. We were waiting to pick up food that we would never eat. Giving wasn’t going to be easy this year, but I was determined that it was going to be worth it.
The food was finally loaded, and I tucked the ‘Thankful’ napkins I had bought into the bag with the meal. Then there was a drive farther down into the city where, after several trips around a dirty, hopeless-feeling neighborhood, we found the shelter and parked. Several residents were doing laundry in the room by the main office, a few children were playing in the parking lot. There was a quick exchange that offered us little information about the recipient family, but the conditions of the shelter and the weary look on everyone’s face there encouraged us that we had made the right choice. We were all quiet as we pulled away except you, smiling and slapping your hand on the cover of the book, ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.”
We pulled into a Cracker Barrel and your GiGi went in to find out about the wait for a table. The word came back: two hours. We called around to several other places and heard similar news. There was nothing to cook at the house and suddenly I realized that you weren’t going to have any real Thanksgiving foods for your first Thanksgiving. We drove towards home and I saw a Waffle House sign, with very few cars in the parking lot. I caught your Daddy’s eye in the rearview mirror and made the suggestion. Without hesitation, he pulled in. Waffle House, as most Waffle Houses are, was bustling with the clank of dishes, the calling out of orders, the sizzle of sausage on the griddle, the smell of waffles and butter thick in the air. We took an empty table and put in our order, and I put two dollars in the juke box, choosing Bing Crosby’s White Christmas to lead the play. We all ordered breakfast and you laughed loudly from your high chair, squealing with delight at the hubbub of the restaurant and smiling broadly at anyone whose eye you could catch. Wilder, your first Thanksgiving was the All-Star Special at Waffle House. And it was delicious. But I still wished there was something more for you on this day.
When we got home, there was still so much time left in the day, and there were no leftovers to pick over. More than anything, I had wanted you to have Sweet Potato Casserole and I wanted your Daddy to have Chocolate Pie, and while there was no other food to cook, I had the ingredients for those. I busied myself in the kitchen attempting to make both. Two hours later, we spooned up pieces of my non-photogenic versions of these classic dishes, pretending that they tasted like they were supposed to, mouthfuls of sweet gooey goo. But you didn’t mind, and you clapped your hands together, laughing, enjoying it so much that it made my heart ache.
I wanted you to have the perfect first Thanksgiving, with a roasted turkey and too many sides, sitting at a table that could have been a spread for a Real Simple cover shoot, everyone going around the table to say for what we were most thankful, everyone smiling toward someone’s phone for a group picture that I could post with a cheerful holiday greeting. But looking at your smiling face enjoying the best Thanksgiving you had ever had, I was so proud to be able to tell you one day that you spent your first time celebrating this special holiday giving away every piece of Thanksgiving food that you had to someone who truly needed it more. And I knew that watching your Daddy spooning sweet potato casserole into your mouth, and seeing it smeared onto your high chair tray, and smeared into your hair, and you laughing through every bite, I knew that I have everything I could ever need to be truly thankful.
And now there are two of you, and twice as many reasons to be thankful. Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May you hold close to the ones you love and love them with all of your heart this holiday.
