Our First Thanksgivings
Atlanta, GA
November 25, 2021
Last year, we recalled America’s first Thanksgiving. Today we remember a couple of ours.
A silhouette of Sonoma hills stood stark against the night sky. Above it, stars were strewn like a display of diamonds on celestial velvet. The lunar light exposed exhausted vines, resting wearily after a bountiful harvest, and seeking annual hibernation on either side of the “Valley of the Moon.”
That was the first Thanksgiving Day my wife and I spent alone, just the two of us. Growing up, my family was always home for the holiday. My mother hosted Thanksgiving dinner, as my grandparents would each Christmas.
A supporting cast of aunts and uncles played their parts to complete the play. And the set was frequently filled: the TV with football, the oven with turkey, the glasses with wine, the table with people, and the people with opinions.
But it wasn’t like today. Thoughts could be shared, as from one wick to another, without having to douse either light. The sparks often enlivened the scene, even if they didn’t enlighten every dispute. Yet rancor was rare. And if it ignited, it was quickly quenched with laughter, or smothered in song. The earth wasn’t scorched, and bridges never burned.
After college, I moved to Sacramento. But Thanksgiving still brought me back to Tampa. After relocating to San Francisco, and for the next couple years, I continued coming to Florida. Then, my job took me to Philadelphia. I was there for only one Thanksgiving…which I spent in San Francisco. It was the best one of my life.
Rita moved to Philadelphia soon after I did, and a mutual friend connected us. Neither of us knew many locals, so we often hung around each other.
We didn’t know the city very well. But it had a lot to offer, and we explored it together. Historical sites, an abundance of museums, a bounty of restaurants, and an occasional movie filled more and more of our weekends.
By summer, we realized we were happy just staying home, so long as we we were together. When we actually enjoyed spending one Saturday night buying cleaning supplies for my bachelor apartment, I knew I’d found someone special. That Thanksgiving, I invited her to San Francisco.
I brought with me a small box. When we arrived, I called Rita’s father to ensure he’d approve me slipping the contents onto his lovely daughter’s finger. He agreed. Now, I needed her to.
That year, like this one, Thanksgiving fell on the 25th. The night before, I planned to take Rita for an intimate dinner at La Folie on Polk…and to bring the ring. Beforehand, we met my friend Ken Miller and his date for drinks.
As the gin drained from our glasses, I mentally prepared for what was about to be the best…or the worst…night of my life. Until I was certain which it would be, I’d kept my intentions quiet from all my San Francisco friends.
When we finished our cocktails, Ken had an idea.
“Why don’t you and Rita join us for dinner?”
Uh oh. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Ordinarily we’d love to”, I explained with an anxious stare toward my unwary friend, “but we already have reservations.”
Then Rita jumped in, and unwittingly pushed me further into the corner.
“Well, I don’t know. You and I can have dinner another night, right? You and Ken don’t see much of each other, so it’d be fun to join them.”
“Um…yeah. I guess so,” I stammered, trying to find a way out of this. “Ken, before we go, can you come with me for a second?”
We went to the bar, where I explained my plans for the evening. Realizing what he’d inadvertently done, Ken said he’d step aside to “call” his restaurant, and then let us know they couldn’t add two more to the reservation. I returned to the table. Ken followed a few minutes later, bearing the “unfortunate” news.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I lied, and quickly escorted Rita from her chair, and to La Folie.
After we arrived, I excused myself, and found the Maître d. I’d called earlier to inform of my intent, so he was aware I’d brought a ring, which I now gave him. He assured me the waiter would bring it to Rita as her “dessert”, just as I’d instructed.
We had a wonderful meal at a peripheral table. As the main course cleared, I was relieved that everything was finally falling into place. It was perfect.
The time had arrived, and so had the waiter, ready to take our dessert orders. He requested Rita’s first.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
What?!?
“You sure?”, I implored. “So much of this looks wonderful. Maybe just a little?”
“No, I’m fine. Just some coffee. But you should have something.”
Like a drowning man, I looked desperately at the waiter, who tried to toss a lifeline.
“Perhaps the lady would like a small portion of le mousse, no? It is très délicieux. Or…le crème brûlée is also fantastique!”
“No, really. I don’t want anything.”
“A fruit plate maybe? Some sorbet?”
“No…nothing”, she replied, becoming a bit annoyed. “Just coffee. Thank you.”
The waiter looked briefly at me, raising his eyebrows and his shoulders, and returned to the kitchen. As he did, Rita remained miffed that he’d kept pushing her to order dessert.
“How many times do I have to say I don’t want anything?”
“It must be really good”, I suggested.
“I’m sure it is. But I was pretty clear I didn’t want it. Not sure why that was so hard to understand.”
A few minutes later, the waiter returned. With a covered dish.
When he put it in front of Rita, I could see her lips tighten and her eyes begin to roll. I thought she was going lose it. But before she could, the waiter lifted the silver dome, and walked away.
As Rita gave a bewildered look toward the plate, I gave an anxious one toward her. Then, as her eyes widened, the corners of her mouth began to turn.
Upward.
Her hands covered the smile before it finished forming, but it already told me what I wanted to hear. With the restaurant almost empty, and several staff watching from a distance, I rose from my seat, went beside hers, and took a knee.
The next night was Thanksgiving, celebrated with several friends in the Marina flat where I’d once lived. To my eternal gratitude, my fiancée was with me, and has been since.
By the following Thanksgiving, we’d moved back to San Francisco, and were hosting friends and carving turkey at our own flat in the Richmond District. A year later, we went reluctantly to Malibu (I touched on that escapade here, so need not regurgitate it now).
After that ordeal, we were determined the following Thanksgiving to stay home. As it happened, it would be our last one while living in California. We’d moved to Sonoma County, and on the fourth Thursday in November were on that dark road thru the Valley of the Moon.
We’d come from our home in Petaluma, and were approaching Kenwood on Highway 12. It was quiet, which was ideal. Rita worked for Andersen Consulting, and her travel meant we rarely saw each other during the week, or on many weekends. We both welcomed the holiday, and a peaceful Thanksgiving together.
But we preferred not to cook or clean, so we decided to be pampered at The Kenwood restaurant. It was delightful. The Pinot flowed, and for the first time in my life, I declined Thanksgiving turkey. Till that night, I never imagined such a diversion was permitted.
When we were seated, I had every intention of abiding culinary tradition. Why wouldn’t I? After all, I’m not a Commie. The thought of something other than turkey never crossed my mind…till I looked at the menu. But when a pork chop beckoned, like a dry martini at a Baptist wedding, I couldn’t pass it up.
I ordered it almost apologetically, as a blatant violation of Thanksgiving ethics. But the waiter granted absolution, assuaging my guilt by noting that were I the only one who’d commit this offense, unconventional options wouldn’t be on the menu. Besides, the Pinot also went well with pork, so it wasn’t a mortal sin.
But regardless the meal, when I looked across the table, I couldn’t have been happier with my choice, nor more elated by hers.
That was a lovely Thanksgiving, and we’ve been blessed with many from that day to this. But none would’ve been possible had Rita refused dessert three years earlier, and not held on to it since.
JD
