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I'm needing to feel that holiday rush
© St. Petersburg Times Wednesday I was out in search of preholiday frenzy, just to make me feel in the mood -- even though I had no particular demands on me at all for Thanksgiving. My husband stopped at Castellano's in the morning to pick up the turkey, so I missed that scene. I called Mike's Pies, hoping for a situation like last year, when all of us too shortsighted to order pies took numbers and queued up after 3, as fresh pumpkin and pecan pies were rushed out to the counter by Norman Rockwellian boys, sons of Mike Martin and Gayle Sierens. It was great! What a madhouse. But this year things were going smooth as silk. I wanted the excitement and camaraderie, not the actual pie -- well, not the calories in it -- so I skipped it and went on to the South Dale Mabry Publix, a madhouse even on an off day. The parking lot looked promising, not a space in sight. I waited (Interminably. What do people do once they get into their cars?) for a parking space. Inside, it was not crazier than usual, except for a woman in produce with her parents who, at 45 or 50, was unable to make a decision without their approval: "Do we need real lemons or real limes?" I was prepared to buy 10 or fewer items, so I could get in the express line, but a regular line opened up free and clear right in front of me. What a disappointment! I finally got a little sense of hustle and bustle at Garden of Eat'n. Thank heavens they were out of the cut orchids I wanted, but there were plenty of other lovely flowers. And that's all I really had to do. I have no elderly relatives or kids here. My husband cooks, so I don't even have to get involved in that unless I want to. Yet much of the pressure of the holidays -- even for those who are more responsibility-challenged -- is not the actual work but the feeling of family and tradition that these days are supposed to miraculously produce. This year my daughter called on Thanksgiving morning from North Carolina. She was making her first turkey and wanted to know how to do it. I told her to take the neck and the package of giblets out first (she knew that; her Mensa-member boyfriend had left them in last year, as well as cooked the bird upside down), then figured the time it would take to cook. She called back; she couldn't find the giblets or neck. That would be because she determined, after a closer look, she had bought a turkey breast. The few culinary traditions I have are from a friend in New York who had a reputation as a great cook. I use her recipe for cranberry sauce, and I cover the turkey with a cloth soaked in butter or oil. I always felt privileged to know these special secrets until I looked at a package of Ocean Spray cranberries and saw my friend's recipe. And this year, looking up turkey info in the Joy of Cooking -- the 1975 edition, the good one -- I see they tell you to use the cloth. No matter. The important thing is when I make the sauce and put the cloth over the turkey, I feel connected with her and with myself when I was younger, with all of us so many years ago, even before our children were born. It's that tradition, even though it's slight in my case -- I had Thanksgiving dinner with this friend only once or twice -- that's so important. It doesn't matter that I'm not with her family now; in fact, several years ago my husband and I went to New York for Thanksgiving dinner at her house, and it was a big disappointment. Ugly weather, too much hassle, and, really, a turkey is a turkey is a turkey. Thursday, while the bird was in the oven, we drove over to Bayshore. In the parking lot at Bay to Bay, a young woman in shorts and a tank top was throwing a ball to her black Lab. We walked north. It was a glorious day, the sky so clear you could count the smokestacks on the TECO plant across the bay. A small egret alighted on the balustrade, its legs a lime green. On the lawn of a Bayshore townhouse, tables were being set up under an awning for dinner outside. Really, Tampa didn't seem a bad place to be. -- Sandra Thompson is a writer living in Tampa. She can be reached at tampa@sptimes. City Life appears on Saturday.
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