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The Halloween decorations are barely down, but the glossy magazines already
scream from the checkout stands: Get Ready for a Hassle-Free Thanksgiving! 34 Steps to
Hah, I think. You’ve never spent Thanksgiving with my family in New York.
gastronomic predilection: vegetarianism. And true, when I first gave up flesh over twenty
“I don’t know how to feed her,” my mom would throw up her hands.
“She’s going to make us all eat tofu turkey,” my brother would mutter.
But eventually we all adjusted, and as grains and legumes climbed up the food
pyramid, I found myself promoted from dietary outcast to trailblazer. Which is a good
thing, because even though I grew up in New York City, I no longer live there and often
worry about appearing provincial to my Big Apple family and friends. So you can
imagine how relieved I felt knowing that I was considered cutting edge.
Thanksgiving day, my brother and I were squeezed with my mother in her tiny
Brooklyn kitchen, chopping garlic and onions when the buzzer rang. Hadiyah, her friend
and neighbor, came puffing into the apartment toting a bag of Russet potatoes.
“I can’t eat sweet potatoes,” she replied, heaving the bag up on the kitchen
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My mother nodded while I pondered for a minute. As far as I knew, the evening’s
plans did not include Hadiya imbibing fermented sweet potatoes and taking us all for a
cruise up Flatbush Avenue in the family 747. But not wanting to appear ignorant, I kept
quiet.
“FAA?” He asked.
“Oh, it’s not just sweet potatoes,” she sighed. “It’s anything with flour or sugar
and I also have to limit dairy and fruit. If I volumize on my metabolic I feel just awful.”
My mother, who has belonged to so many different 12 step groups that she
considered starting a new one to help her break free of them, understood exactly what had
“Oh that,” said my mom, with a shrug. “Overeating at snack time. Members of
important distinction.”
Clearly. Except I was still considering what a sweet potato addiction might look
like. Would you awaken in a cold sweat in the middle of the night craving one? Would
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you find yourself breaking into cars for spare change to purchase your tuber? Or would
you just be so desperate you would head directly to the supermarket with a crowbar? I
was about to ask my mother if this was the distinction between biochemical and
This time it was Jonathan, an old family friend who lives near my mom. He gave
me a kiss hello.
“Here Sande” he said handing my mother a bag. “This is for the stuffing. I gotta
I picked up the bag casually and felt my arm pull out of the socket. The label said
rice bread but the contents appeared more like a loaf of paving bricks.
folk band who, instead of M and M’s, required unleavened rice bread after their
performance? I waited for my mom to elaborate but she was busy washing the potatoes.
“You know,” said my mom, with that tone of voice we used to hear when we
Oh. Just like Hadiyah. I was getting it. “No wheat,” I said confidently.
“No, not just wheat, gluten,” corrected my mom sharply. “No rye, no oats, no
barley.”
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“Well what’s the big deal?” I asked. “How many oats and barley does one person
need? It’s not like he’s a horse.” I giggled, but she turned off the water and faced me.
“Oh no. It’s far worse than you can imagine. He can’t have bread, cereal, cookies
or cakes. And since barley is used as a natural sweetener, that eliminates wheat-free
snacks and certain types of herbal teas. And he gets quite sick--bad gas, intestinal
bleeding, cramps.”
I picked up the rice bread, my face turning crimson. “Well, let’s be sure to use
this then.”
But no sooner had I dumped it into the stuffing mix and thrown away the bag
when I heard my mom cry out. “Oh Christ, I don’t believe this.”
“I can’t have this. It has 22 grams of carbohydrate per serving. That’s way too
high. If I have more than 14 grams my blood sugar goes through the roof.”
My mother is a diabetic and diligently studies every gram of food that she ingests.
I looked back into the kitchen. We were running out of pots. Along with two potato
dishes we were now going to need two different stuffings—one with the rice bread, and
one with regular bread, which I immediately realized was going to have to be further
vegetarians.
So we chopped up some more onions and carrots and got a second batch of
stuffing going. My mother went to the fridge and pulled out the turkey.
“Well,” she said, relieved to be approaching the end of this marathon prep session.
“At least we know where we stand on the turkey. Either people will eat it or they won’t.”
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Thank goodness for my brother, who goes right to the point.
He glanced at the wrapper and then at her. “Mom. This isn’t a free range turkey.”
“It’s probably packed with antibiotics, and raised on GMO feed. Why didn’t you
She started to answer, but then looked the plates and pans stacked halfway to the
ceiling, the piles of onion skins and potato peels splayed across the floor, and instead,
thrust the turkey baster at my brother, the sponge at me, and clomped down the stairs to
shower.
By time we sat down hours later, the table was so packed with food I couldn’t see
the tablecloth. Not just because of the usual Thanksgiving panoply, but because there
were enough variations on each dish that would make even Glatt Kosher Jews look lax.
There were four stuffing dishes (we had added a regular bread, cooked-outside-turkey-
walnut-free version for my nine-month-old son who was not supposed to have nuts
because of potential peanut allergies), sweet and regular potatoes, green beans with and
without butter (for another guest who had reminded us that he had high cholesterol) salad
with and without dressing, one batch of regular and one batch of rice bread croutons, (on
the side of course), sweetened and unsweetened cranberry sauce, and oh yes, a small
Ravenous, we sorted wildly and then attacked. My four year old daughter was
also famished so I filled her plate with green beans, sweet potatoes, stuffing and French
But I had barely picked up my own when I heard her burst into tears.
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“Yuck Mom,” she cried. “Where’s my macaroni and cheese?”
But then I tell myself, oh, just relax. Since we’ll be in New York, if we can’t
accommodate everyone, we’ll just do what the locals do when they’re in a pinch: Pick up
the phone and order in. So what if the only thing we can agree on is raw spinach?
(Organic and triple rinsed of course). At least we’ll all be able to eat it, together. And for
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