Unconditional

The pineapple, brown-sugar yams are still warm in their aluminum containers, the gravy starter is gelling in the Tupperware, the kid-friendly appetizers are plated and Saran-wrapped, the sparkling cranberry-apple flavor Martinelli bottles are already in the car, my brother, John, is deciding which of his button-down shirts will look best unbuttoned, my dad is ironing his dress pants, and my mom is stressed because we never leave on time. I’m ready early – trying to catch a couple minutes of the Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade before we have to go.

This is how Thanksgiving begins.

            Once everything is packed and presentable and the Rockettes give their final kick, we pile into the car and head to the Ochoa’s house for an early Thanksgiving dinner.

We’ve known Rick and Laurie Ochoa and their three daughters since before I can remember, when we were neighbors in Albany. They moved to Danville and soon after, we moved to Berkeley. Since then, we’ve spent every Thanksgiving, Easter, Father’s Day and Memorial Day with the Ochoas and their extended family. Thanksgiving is always at Elisa’s house, Laurie’s youngest of five sisters. She and her husband, also named John, have a son named Blake.

After we’ve been on the freeway for a while, my brother and I decide it’s time to break out this year’s list. The list is something my brother and I finalize about an hour before we leave for each get-together. It’s comprised of all the topics that my parents are not allowed to talk about. The list must be repeated at least three times during the car ride in order for my parents to actually hear each item. Usually the topics are obvious things like “Don’t bring up my SAT Scores/AP Scores/GPA” or “Don’t bring up that John still plays chess.” But, it’s the obvious things that my parents have the most trouble with, like “Don’t bring up that you think John is being an annoying teenager and you’re always fighting with him, because that’s personal information that they don’t need to know” was brought up last summer when my brother was in the Ochoa’s back yard and not there to monitor my dad’s conversation.

After we are done with the third round of the list, I plug into my iPod and watch the other family-dinner-bound cars driving alongside us. Once we pass downtown Santa Rosa’s quaint storefront and kitschy named developments, I know we’re almost there.

The house in Santa Rosa has the steepest driveway I have ever seen. We drive up to the end of a well-maintained cul-de-sac, and on the left is a slab of pebbled concrete, sloped downward, that ends at Elisa and John’s seasonally decorated front steps.

            Every year we walk down this steep trek, aluminum foil covered platters balanced on our palms, hoping not to trip. We stop at the decorated steps – waiting for the one of us to open the unlocked door.

I know from the cars outside that people have already arrived. Elisa is probably in the kitchen, where stuffing is being prepared and potatoes are waiting to be peeled. The grandma and grandpa, Laurie and her sister’s parents, are there, resting on the green leather couches, watching TV, and listening to Elisa talk about Blake’s new school. The cousins from southern California are also in the great room, playing with their baby boy. The dog is scampering around, hiding from his over-eager elementary school owner, Blake. John is cooking the turkey on the grill outside and trying to catch bits of the game on TV while still keeping an eye on Blake and the dog.

After a slight stall, one of my parents opens the door and we’re met with, “Hey, it’s the Claras” or “The Claras are here!” We smile and take off our shoes, heading towards the kitchen. Once we put down what we’ve brought and say hello to everyone, my whole family disperses into different directions. In a flash, my brother is whisked away by Blake and is introduced to all his new toys. My dad goes to mingle with the grandparents and cousins while my mom goes to help Elisa with the food. This is exactly the point when I don’t know what to do.

I end up trailing after John and watch him play with Blake. Blake has already broken out his newest possessions. His Transformer, his dartboard and his Chinese checker set all end up in the study, where he and John are setting up a block jump to launch a marble as high as it will go. Blake is ecstatic. In his eyes, John is as cool as it gets. John’s in middle school, has all the latest electronics and knows how to win at every game. I watch as John makes an extensive ramp that launches the marble across the table. I try to make the ramp more streamlined and longer. It fails miserably. Blake says good job anyway. It’s a phrase he appears to be practicing. After we reconstruct the original ramp he says good job again. John and Blake move on to a new game and I make my way back to the kitchen where my parents are chatting.

            I stand next to my mom and try to listen to her conversation with one of Laurie’s sisters. After standing for a bit with nothing to contribute I smile and leave to go stand by my dad, who’s talking to the grandpa. Seeing that my dad’s conversation isn’t any better, I leave and return to my mom’s once again. Pretty soon, the Ochoas arrive. Laurie, Rick and Michelle come in one car. Angela and her fiancé, Nate, arrive after them. Sometimes Rebecca comes, but she now lives in Chile with her boyfriend and can’t always make the trip. They quickly join in with the meal preparations and the conversations.

            Rick and Laurie’s daughters were as cool as it got when I was Blake’s age. They had tons of dress-up clothes, dolls and books. Michelle was a ballerina and always had good make-up, Angela was older and very pretty and Rebecca was smart, had nice hair and was just comfortable to be around. Even though we don’t play dress-up or dolls anymore, I still think they’re cool.

            At this point, I try to actually talk to people. I get questions about school and extracurriculars. But, it’s soon rediscovered that I can’t small talk and my answers sound bland and forced. Laurie asks me how school is going and I’ll want to say, “It’s horrible! I have the worst history teacher you could image, AP English is the hardest class I’ve ever taken and I don’t understand chemistry at all! Plus, I’m freaking out about the SATs, which I’m taking next weekend! But, some parts of the year are good. Like, I have a really good art teacher and my teachers are actually nice (except for that one bad history teacher) and I made some new friends, who I really like. So, maybe this year isn’t all that bad.” Instead I reply, “School is okay and I have okay teachers except for one, but I’m really focusing on the SATs right now – which I’m pretty worried about.”

My voice sounds monotone inside my own head and after a while, I retreat back to the study and join in on the new game, Chinese checkers. My brother wins. Blake says good job.

            I go back to the kitchen. It’s time to make gravy. My mom used to make it every year (her mother taught her) and now I make it. First, I heat the drippings. I add flour and cook it through, so the gravy doesn’t taste like raw flour. I take my time, adding ladles full of homemade stalk until the flour paste and the stock have reached the ideal consistency. I mix in the pre-made gravy starter that my mom bought at Andronico’s, so we’ll have enough gravy for everyone. It’s closer to grey than brown and congealed looking, but when heated up with my gravy, it tastes homemade.

            Everything comes together after the gravy is made. The turkey is carved; the mashed potatoes are spooned out into a serving bowl; the stuffing comes out of the oven; the yams that my mom made are put on the counter with at least three dishes of broccoli casserole, an Ochoa specialty; there are bread rolls and green beans and salads; and Angela’s cranberry sauce takes the place of honor at the end of the lineup.

            Before we eat, the grandpa, Ray, leads us in a mealtime blessing. Most everyone closes their eyes except for my mom and my brother. Sometimes, someone else doesn’t close their eyes for one reason or another. I switch off every year.

Bless us, Oh Lord

for these, thy gifts, which

we are about to receive from thy bounty

through Christ, Our Lord.

Amen.

The food is set up buffet style. We pile it on our plates and move to the dining room, where three tables are decorated with gourd centerpieces and fall colored paper leaves scattered around the pewter candle sticks.

Blake is already set up, so John and I sit by him and my mom and dad sit around us. Rick sits nearby and if Rebecca is there, she sits by us too. One of Laurie’s sisters and her husband, who live in Oakland, also join us. Then everyone else finds a place and the tables are full.

Conversations flow easier at the dinner table and it doesn’t matter that I don’t talk very much. Usually, as long as I appear to be engaged and talk once in a while, everything is okay. After dinner is over, everyone stays seated and continues their conversations. At a certain point Michelle picks up her waitress role and takes everyone’s pie, ice cream or whipping cream and coffee requests. Everything is home made, sweet and flakey.

After we’re done with dessert, people move to the kitchen to clean up or move to the family room or living room to continue chatting. Usually my dad and Rick and a few other people stay in the dining room drinking coffee – I stay with them.

Once it’s dark outside, it’s time for us to go. Rick and Laurie and their daughters and the grandparents leave around the same time. We collect all our things and some packaged leftovers and hug everyone goodbye.

We head away from the cul-de-sac, drive past the developments and get back on the highway. The moment we get in the car, I start talking.

“Did the grandpa look tired to you?”

“Did you hear if Rebecca and her boyfriend are moving in together?”

“Did Elisa seem stressed to you?”
“Did you notice Michelle’s hair was different? Her boyfriend didn’t come this time, do you think they broke up?”

My parents try their best to answer my questions and we talk about the conversations we had and our favorite parts of the day. After we’ve exhausted every subject, I plug into my iPod and watch the cars that go by.

            When we get closer to Berkeley, I can see into the houses we pass and see other families in their dinning rooms and living rooms having their Thanksgiving dinners.

The families that I see through these windows probably don’t feel all that comfortable at their Thanksgiving dinners either, or maybe they do. I know that at my family Thanksgiving it seems like I would prefer to be at home watching the Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade in its entirety than be at the Santa Rosa house. But what I have with the Ochoas, and what other people have with their families, is the fact that families (or friends who act as family) love unconditionally – which I am extremely thankful for.