Who’s in the kitchen Talking turkey no matter how you slice it. Giving thanks no matter how you slice it

Thanksgiving, to me as a kid growing up, meant a day or two off from school, getting bundled and attending the Thanksgiving day parade and getting together with family and friends to stuff ourselves and give thanks for all that we had. There was the usual turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and a myriad of side dishes. I must admit, though, we didn’t have pumpkin pie; not sure anyone in Boro Park did. Not even sure pumpkins were sold there back then. One year we even had a play in elementary school where we had to hold a bow and arrow and make believe we were shooting wild turkeys. Thought the arrow was, of course, a toy that had a rubber suction tip at the end; we were told not to shoot them off as we were pointing them towards the audience. Of course, by accident, I actually fired off my arrow and to this day I can see the parent in the front row with the arrow suctioned onto his forehead.

I was surprised to hear that my husband’s family, having been born in Europe and having gone through the Holocaust, celebrated Thanksgiving. Jerry said his father was so grateful for the chance to live in a country where he could be proud of his Jewish heritage, was given a job, barely able to speak a word of English and was able to grow in his field and eventually own a thriving pocketbook factory with over 100 employees. Now, granted, his Thanksgiving was a bit different from mine. His day started with Laurel and Hardy’s March of the Wooden Soldiers on TV. He loved that movie almost as much as the play that he didn’t get a part in, in first grade. (Little did the teachers know what a wonderful storyteller he would grow up to be...their loss.) He was a bit confused at first as the Indians seemed authentic but the other kids were dressed like “chassidm with big black hats and beards”--totally different from the cowboys he always viewed on TV while watching his beloved cowboy and Indian shows.