When we were little my sisters and I hid under the Thanksgiving table, snatching my parents’ versions of hors d’oeuvres—canned olives, sweet pickles and stuffed celery—when we thought no one was looking.
Viewed through a Native lens, we must have seemed like the penultimate American family torn from a page penned by Betty Crocker.
I learned later that my American Indian relatives celebrated harvest in a similar vein to contemporary settlers: eating deer stew and autumn vegetables and dried fruits, thanking the creator for life-replenishing bounty.
I welcome a reason to be mindful of my French and Native heritage on this day. When our kids were little we used the day to remind them of our connection to the earth, realized through our feast.
Now that the children are creating their own traditions my honey and I have decided to blast tradition to hell.
We begin our morning with pie.
There’s nothing better than greeting Thanksgiving with a slice of apple pie warmed from the oven. As the day lollygags we will each pass by the pie dish with a longing glance, furtively picking at a piece of crust, sneaking a bit of apple.
This evening we’ll jump into turkey and squash, and, if there’s any left, a slice of apple pie.
And we won’t have to hide under the table.
[Blog 12 of Native American Heritage Month. I pledge one blog per day.]