Thanksgiving

May the beauty of your life become more visible to you that you may glimpse your wild divinity.

May the wonders of the earth call you forth from all your small secret prisons and set your feet free in the pastures of possibility . . .

Mum read a blessing by the Irish philosopher, poet, and priest John O’ Donohue. The words filled the room, heavy with the wisdom and humanity of their author, abundant and generous as our table. This was full, creaking under the weight of a day’s worth of cooking. There was a whole ham, warm from the oven and sweet with a glaze of mustard, brown sugar, and whiskey. To escort the ham we had black figs poached in a spicy syrup, creamy parsley sauce, roast and mashed potatoes, peas perfumed with mint, and two whole pumpkins, hollowed and baked with gruyere, cream, and gratings of nutmeg. And these were merely my own contributions to the meal. Danielle arrived around midday and traipsed into the kitchen laden with shopping bags. She roasted a whole turkey, tossed together an aromatic mushroom-sage stuffing, and whizzed up a fresh, garlicky artichoke dip.

All this was done with the non-committal assistance of Danielle’s boyfriend Jacob and Cousin Brad. Brad would peer over our shoulders enthusiastically, and in manner of cooking show assistant he would repeat ingredient measurements and ask a volley of questions. Then quite suddenly he’d take a swig of wine, mumble that his estrogen level was getting dangerously high, and disappear to the gentlemen’s club that was rapidly forming in the sitting room (presumably to replenish his testosterone with televised football and more booze). Jacob’s approach was different. He’d wander into the kitchen having fetched something for Danielle, say something complimentary or encouraging, and then sidle out again. To be fair, however, Brad beautifully sliced the apples for my pie, and Jacob concocted a luscious pumpkin filling for a second pie.

By four o’clock the first guests arrived; Roosje and her husband Dan, an ex chef who came rolling with a gorgeous pate. It looked humble enough from the outside. Nevertheless, having heard talk of this pate for weeks, I knew it was going to be something special. “Dan has ordered a truffle from Italy,” Roosje had revealed to me one day, bubbling with excitement. I was anticipating a masterpiece.

At the party, Dan nodded in confirmation. “Yes, it’s made of chicken liver, goose liver, and truffle.” My knees wobbled a bit. The Champagne was uncorked by my father, with the usual fanfare. The bubbles were poured, clinked, and sipped, and then we descended upon the pate. Here the words for an accurate description fail me. All I can truthfully say is that it was one of those mouthfuls that make your tongue, teeth and taste buds feel as though they are helplessly melting into divine oblivion. It was insane.

Later we sat down to the meal: not insane, but just as a Thanksgiving feast ought to be—the archetype of good home cooking. My favorite dish by far was also the simplest, and is prepared as follows: Cut the lid off a pumpkin and scrape out all the seeds and stringy pulp from the inside. Fill 1/3 full with grated gruyere cheese and pour in heavy cream until 2/3 full. Toss in a knob of butter, a little salt, pepper, and a few gratings from a whole nutmeg. Replace the lid and bake in a 375F oven until the flesh of the pumpkin is cooked through.

For me, it was a novel way of preparing pumpkin, inspired—get again—by the British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, on whom I have a culinary crush. Okay, he’s middle aged and looks a bit like a cave man (in a good way) but he raises his own meat, grows his own veg, and has a wonderfully expansive, unfussy approach to the kitchen. But I digress.

Like the meal, the evening was just as it should be: hours of eating, drinking, and good laughs followed by plenty of lounging, coffee, and dessert—the luxurious business of being pleasantly unproductive. During the waning of the year, Thanksgiving always seems to me the moment of huddling down, of lighting our metaphorical fires for the winter. John O’ Donohue’s blessing echoed in my mind as I went to sleep that night, perfectly in sync with the tone of our evening and this turning of seasons:

May the liturgy of twilight shelter all your fears and darkness within the circle of ease.

May the angel of memory surprise you in bleak times with new gifts from the harvest of your vanished days.

May you allow no dark hand to quench the candle of hope in your heart.

May you discover a new generosity towards yourself and encourage yourself to engage your life as a great adventure.