In the Kitchen With America’s First Pilgrims

So Pilgrim Dad lifts the turkey from the fire, lets it cool 20 minutes, then prepares to carve it. Since it is the first Thanksgiving, he says a little prayer.

“Please, God, don’t let me carve poorly,” he prays softly.

“Amen to that,” says his Pilgrim wife.

And he draws a big breath, then stabs the roast turkey good with the big knife, just to make sure it is dead.

“It’s dead,” he says confidently. For a Pilgrim father, he is pretty good in the kitchen.

“Yep, it’s dead,” he repeats, stabbing it again.

“That’s a relief,” says his wife. “It’s been cooking four hours.”

Like a lot of men, Pilgrim Dad likes to carve alone. Not at the end of the long table with everyone watching, including Pilgrim Al, his big-mouth brother-in-law.

No, Pilgrim Dad likes to carve in the kitchen, in his nice black apron, the one he wears at Pilgrim barbecues. He likes to carve alone so no one can see him struggle with the drumstick.

When his wife isn’t looking, Pilgrim Dad sneaks a little piece of white meat.

“Almost ready!” he yells to the guests in the next room.

“What’s he doing in there?” one of the guests asks as they wait around the big table.

“Sneaking white meat,” Pilgrim Al says.

And all the relatives and guests laugh.

“Leave some white meat for us,” Pilgrim Al yells, which draws another big laugh from around the table. Even back then, guys like Pilgrim Al always got the big laughs.

“Better hurry,” Pilgrim Mom urges her husband, watching over his shoulder as he carves the big bird.

“They can wait,” says Pilgrim Dad.

After much sawing, Pilgrim Dad lops off a drumstick. Then he lops off a wing. Then he slices fat slabs of white meat, juicy and tender, thick as the Old Testament.

“Could you hurry it up in there?” one of the Pilgrim fathers in the next room yells.

“Yeah, we’re eating table decorations in here,” Pilgrim Al says.

And all the relatives and guests laugh.

*

Back in the kitchen, Pilgrim Mom begins the gravy. Since it is the first Thanksgiving, she says a little prayer.

“Please, God, don’t let my gravy be lumpy,” she prays softly.

At first, the flour lumps up a little, gooey little wads that won’t melt no matter how hard Pilgrim Mom stirs.

“Everything OK?” Pilgrim Alice asks, poking her head in the door.

“The gravy . . . it’s all lumpy,” Pilgrim Mom moans.

“Turn up the heat,” Pilgrim Alice suggests.

“I’ll get the sweet potatoes,” says Pilgrim Bernice, following Alice into the kitchen.

Soon, there is a crowd in the kitchen, pitching in to hurry things along--stirring gravy, holding platters, mashing cranberries, spilling stuff everywhere.

“Can we help?” asks a young Indian, sticking his head in the door.

“How about heating up that venison,” Pilgrim Mom says.

“Whatever,” the young Indian says, grabbing a pot.

Since it is the first Thanksgiving, the young Indian says a little prayer.

“Please, God, don’t make me sit next to Pilgrim Al,” the young Indian prays softly.

“Did someone call my name?” Pilgrim Al says, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

“Not me,” says the young Indian.

“Not me,” says Pilgrim Dad.

But Pilgrim Al comes into the kitchen anyway. He is a rotund man, with a head like a gourd. Eventually, he will own furniture stores up and down the East Coast.

“Hey, look at that pie!” Pilgrim Al says.

It takes awhile, but in time, the turkey is carved, the gravy grows smooth and the pumpkin pie vanishes even before dinner.

“Good appetizer,” says Pilgrim Al.

“That was dessert,” says Pilgrim Mom.

*

With everything finally ready, they all sit down at the long oak table in the main room. The humble home is buttery with candlelight. In the fireplace, a great blaze roars.

Everyone is grateful to be there, enjoying this great feast with family and friends--except, of course, Pilgrim Maureen, who is still mad at Pilgrim Kate over something that happened when they were both 7. And Pilgrim Sara, who is envious of Pilgrim Jane’s new boyfriend, a promising young miller.

Off to the side, two Pilgrim uncles place small wagers on who will cry first.

“I say Sara cries first,” one of the uncles says.

“I say Kate,” says the other uncle.

At the children’s table, a little red-haired Pilgrim won’t eat anything but salt and celery. A Pilgrim boy puts green beans in his ears and sneezes mashed potatoes. A lovely and patient daughter sits glumly, wishing she were shopping at Pilgrims Gap.

“Kids today . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with them,” a Pilgrim grandmother mutters. “They have everything, and they’re still not happy.”

*

“Ka-shooooo,” sneezes the boy.

And that’s pretty much how that first Thanksgiving goes. The stuffing is a little dry. The sweet potatoes stick to the serving spoon. The dads all eat too much, then eat a little more.

Since it is the first Thanksgiving, Pilgrim Mom says a short, soft prayer for everyone there.

“Thank you, God, for all You have brought us,” she prays, gesturing to the table full of food and friends.

“Even Pilgrim Al,” Pilgrim Dad adds.

“Amen,” everyone says.

Happy Thanksgiving.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.