Ode to Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is cancelled this year, at least the Thanksgiving we’ve known for the last 16 years. Thanksgivings at our house have become so epic that we joked a few years back we’d be accepting applications for attendance. We considered simply sticking with protocol this year and emailing the standard Evite to the forty people we invite every year, allowing them to choose to come or not according to their comfort level. But if we make this choice, our daughter, Chloe will not attend. She hasn’t set foot in our house for eight months.

The Searcy Thanksgiving Bash started in 2004 when we moved back to Burbank from North Carolina. We were sad about missing holidays with our families back East, but luckily my baby sister, Bridget and her husband, Steve and three daughters who lived up in the Bay Area, decided to drive down for Thanksgiving. That first year, they stayed at the Safari Inn up the street, a funky retro motel that Lucinda Williams once called home. We cooked a big turkey along with side dishes from our childhood holidays — spinach casserole, sweet potato casserole and Oreo Pudding from Nick’s, Derby Pie from mine, with White Castle Hamburger Stuffing thrown in as a joke. Steve had just acquired a little electric deep fryer so he fried up some breaded mushrooms and artichoke hearts. We invited a couple of close friends who were far away from their own families.

The day after Thanksgiving that first year, Nick, Chloe, Omar and I drove over for a swim at the Safari with the Wedmans. Toweling himself off in the morning sunshine, Steve asked in his jokey, announcer-like voice, “Who else could use a beer?” 

“Me!” I raised my hand. “And some more fried stuff.”

We didn’t know that this would be the start of a new tradition, that the day after Thanksgiving would thereafter be known as Black Fryday. Chloe was in high school, the rest of the kids in preschool. A couple of years later, we moved to a bigger house and the Wedmans began staying with us instead of at the Safari. Chloe went off to Yale, but came home for Thanksgiving. The Wedmans got a dog, then another and added the pets to the already-crowded minivan, blasting down the 5 with a luggage box strapped to the roof. 

Each year, our celebration grew. Every time we did something new, Bridget added it to the list of “traditions.” Norm’s burgers when the Wedmans arrived at noon on Wednesday. Hobby Lobby for craft supplies so the girls would be entertained while we partied. Food prep party Wednesday night and then Steve and Nick’s late-night bar outing. Wine in the hottub and crashing early for Bridget and me. Waking at 8:00 and eating Derby Pie for breakfast. Watching the Macy’s Day parade and cooking all morning. Mimosas and the traditional breaking of the White Castle Burgers, greeting guests, eating, naps, beer pong, eating again, hang-overs, another full-out party on Black Fryday, going to bed with a stomach full of razor blades. It took a week to recover. The years passed like this. Chloe came home from college and the rest of the kids went through grade school.

Steve designed a cool portable bar, the Bar Master 9600, shoving it into the back of the van, then setting it up inside the front gate so that our guests’ first stop was for fried appetizers and a beer. He upgraded it the next year with Tiki details and mini-lights and a fountain, a blow-up Chesterfield sofa. Nick added his director’s chairs. My dance teacher, Hama, gave me 25 stacking chairs. Other friends donated 6’ folding tables. Every guest brought a casserole or pie or a side dish. I purchased coolers and trash cans and polyester tablecloths and centerpieces. We bought cases of wine, cases of beer, cases of sodas, bags and bags of ice.

The invitation list grew — our dear friend and mentor Russell and his family added seven to our list. Nick’s fellow actors, directors, acquaintances and anyone else who had nowhere to go on Thanksgiving were all invited. Nick serenaded our next-door neighbors, Dave and Thomas to convince them to come over late one Thanksgiving night. Pretty soon, Dave was bringing his beer pong table and what most Americans consider to be a few hours of eating and watching football turned into a raucous party lasting into the wee hours of the morning.

We invited our friend, Gene in 2007. When the time came to put the meal on the table, he noticed that I was having difficulty. I stood in the middle of the kitchen turning in circles, oven filled with casseroles and countertops covered in dishes needing heating. Having experience in catering, he recognized that I was out of my element. 

“Do you need some help?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” was my answer. 

“Do you have some extra oven mitts?” he asked. From that year on, Gene took over the kitchen. He brined and cooked two turkeys, took charge of carving them and the Honey Baked Ham we had to add. He began taking over Dave and Thomas’ kitchen too, making use of their oven and two refrigerators for the overflow. We made two, three or four batches of all of our dishes. We bought pounds of butter and cream cheese and sugar and flour. 

Years passed. Chloe grew up and the rest of the kids went to high school. Our dear Russell passed away the day after Thanksgiving in 2016. We always gather everyone for grace before the meal, all of us crowding into the dining room, joining hands in a huge circle and praying to “the Higher Power of your choice.” We cry when Nick includes a prayer of blessing and thanks for Russell, who called this circle “Forced Family Prayer” and was always the first to break away to grab a plate. 

Even though Thanksgiving is a group effort and everybody pitches in, it is a big job. I usually start freaking out at the beginning of November, feeling like I can’t do it, like it has all gotten out of hand. Yes, everybody in the family has a job. But it takes loads of energy to coordinate all the moving parts. I called Gene a few years back before our traditional and very expensive Monday Costco trip.

 “I’m freaking out here, this is too much!”

“It’s gonna be fine, Leslie, it’s just like landing at Normandie.”

Chloe has proposed an intimate family gathering this year, just us and the Wedmans, since she doesn’t feel comfortable in a big crowd. She says she’d hate to miss Thanksgiving with her family and, if we are willing to make some changes, she wants to come inside and hang with us for the first time in eight months (with some precautions in place). Chloe has always been a huge part of our holiday. To imagine not having her in the kitchen with us chopping vegetables, mixing the mimosas, arguing about how many batches of spinach casserole to make, would break my heart. I’ve already had to accept not sitting on the sofa with her, drinking wine and binge-watching our favorite shows, shopping with her, meeting for lunch, hanging out with her and talking, not being able to touch her.

We will miss our regular gang, but many of them would choose not to attend anyway. And I have to admit, it would be a tiny bit of a relief to have a year off. Everybody has heard about how stressed out I get hosting the Thanksgiving Bash. And I always feel like my hostessing duties are so all-encompassing that I don’t get enough one-on-one sister time with Bridget. The change could be fun for us all.

“Well…” Nick says when I tell him it will just be family for Thanksgiving Day, “How about if we just invite everybody who wants to come for Black Fryday?” Looks like I won’t be getting a break after all.