Another great Thanksgiving memory.... We all get to that point in our lives when we start to transition from adolescence to adulthood. We go out and get our first job. We find our own places to live, buy our own groceries and cook our own meals. Cooking our own meals — wait, what? Yes, at some point I had to start cooking, but leave it to me to do things backwards. I got a job, saved up, got my own place, moved out, bought my groceries and then stared at the oven and stovetop like they were foreign objects. I wanted the home-cooked meals my mom made. But I had never watched her cook or worked with her in the kitchen. I just showed up when she would call out, “Dinner is ready!” from the front door. (Remember that era, when kids played outside?) There I was, a strong independent Cuban woman who could boil an egg (sometimes), but didn’t know how to cook rice, let alone marinate a steak or chicken (what spices should I use?) or how long to even bake a potato. Pathetic right? S
It’s November already and Thanksgiving is right around the corner. This will be our third turkey day without my dad at the head of the table. It still doesn’t feel the same. I can recall Thanksgiving dinners when we lived in the section of Miami known as Little Havana. Our house was just two blocks off the busy and bustling famous Calle Ocho (S.W. 8 street also known as the Tamiami Trail). Thanksgiving was a family get-together and my family is HUGE. There was the table for the adults that sat roughly 20 people. And there were three more tables for the kids. If folks had too much to drink, they stayed overnight. It was a pretty big two-story house, so there was plenty of room for everyone. The women spent the day in the kitchen. Cooking, prepping and gossiping. The men set up a table in the back yard and played dominoes, talked about work and drank beer. The kids ran around the entire neighborhood playing, Hop-Scotch, Red Rover, Cowboys and Indians, Hide-n-Seek. We had turkey, dressi