“Sure, we can do Thanksgiving at my house this year,” I said to my sister. “But do you really want to drive three hours?”

For many years, my mother hosted Thanksgiving at her house. She claimed it was her favorite holiday. I’m not sure why it was so special for her. I don’t remember it being her favorite holiday when I was growing up, but things change, especially as we get older. When my own kids were little, she made holidays easy for us and didn’t expect us to travel to spend the day with her. So, when the grand-kids were grown and she claimed Thanksgiving as her favorite holiday, calling in July to remind us she’d be hosting at her house, no one complained.

My sister would drive three hours making stops along the way to gather her clan. My family would collect at our house and we’d drive two hours to gather for the day, arriving at my mother’s house in Vermont mid-morning making sure to time it so we wouldn’t get caught up in the annual Thanksgiving Day 5K Road Race, an event that pulls in hundreds of runners. The route went through the village and ended right where we’d turn to get onto my mother street. If we mistimed our arrival, it could take a quarter of an hour to work our way through all the mingling participants. She’d call each Thanksgiving eve to remind us of the event.

Her house was over a hundred years old, and typical of an old New England farmhouse with its small rooms, it had a small kitchen. Actually, it wasn’t that the kitchen itself was small, she did have a large farm table in it, but rather, it was the twenty-four linear inches of counter space filled with a coffee maker and a toaster-oven that made it feel small as we tried to prepare our Thanksgiving dinner. After a few years though, the kitchen became the stage of a beautifully choreographed ballet – we each knew where we should be, and when.

Our Thanksgiving was, in fact, so well choreographed, that my mother could sit in the living room with her glass of wine, never needing to lift a finger, which was good because she had a tendency to become overwhelmed with people in her house. I was never sure if she actually enjoyed having us all at her house for Thanksgiving, or if it was the idea of it that made it her favorite holiday. To make it as easy as possible for her, we’d do all the set up and made sure her house looked like no one had been there, except for a few leftovers, when we left.

Whoever arrived first would be assigned the task of bringing a table down the steep and narrow stairs from the second floor and place it next to the regular dining table. We’d collect chairs and set ten places with table linens, fall-themed cloth napkins, and my mother’s Friendly Village dishes.

Since it would have been impossible to prepare from scratch in that kitchen, my sister would bring an already spatchcocked turkey and appetizers, my mother would make the potatoes, squash and deviled eggs ahead of our arrival, and I’d bring my homemade cranberry sauce and creamed onions that I’d heat up in my slow cooker.

We’d set up a folding card table for the pumpkin pies and other assorted desserts at one end of the kitchen between the two front windows that looked out onto two coolers full of wine and beer on the kitchen porch. I always brought along extra jars so everyone could take home a serving or two of my homemade Indian pudding, a New England tradition and family favorite. Made with cornmeal, butter, milk and molasses, and baked in the oven for three hours, the pudding is rich and delicious and thank God Thanksgiving only comes once a year. We learned, after several Thanksgivings, that the pudding was too rich to eat on a full tummy. But not wanting to miss out on it, everyone would settle for a small taste as long as they could take a serving home for later.

Have you ever noticed how once the turkey’s been in the oven for only a short while, it starts to waft its turkey-ness throughout the house? It establishes itself early in the day and, depending on how big the turkey and how many people are sitting down for dinner, it can take center stage for several days. The routine at my house was always turkey dinner, then turkey tetrazzini, followed by turkey sandwiches on homemade bread, with dressing, and cranberry sauce. Then finally, when the carcass was picked apart, I would make turkey soup. For some reason, turkey soup is not my favorite. I haven’t decided if it’s the soup I don’t care for, or if it’s the idea of having to eat more turkey. Perhaps I could freeze it and see if it tastes better in January.

Back in my mother’s kitchen with the turkey out of the oven, my son would start on the task of carving while I made the gravy. Making gravy from scratch, tasting the richness of the turkey drippings, adds a touch to the turkey dinner that canned gravy cannot, and never will, match.

Making a delicious homemade gravy, starting with a combination of a roux made with flour and butter, then whisked together with the de-fatted drippings from the roasting pan and liquid from the cooked giblets, is pretty easy and definitely not on anyone’s diet. Adding fresh ground pepper helps bring out the turkey flavor.

Olives, pickles, and nuts were placed on the table, away from the little kids, along with the cranberry sauce, creamed onions, dressing, rolls, squash, potatoes, the gravy boat, and the platter of turkey. My sister would always insist on something green, so there might be Brussel sprouts, green peas, or green beans as well. A meal worthy of a blessing.

Then there was that one Thanksgiving. The one when my brother came home from California with his at-the-time-girlfriend and his two adult daughters. It was wonderful to have them visit, but was, without a doubt, my least favorite Thanksgiving. My brother’s girlfriend, who was the nervous type and needed to keep busy, decided she’d be in charge of our Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that she might be intruding on our tradition, the tradition where I was in charge. She was invading my well-established territory and I wasn’t happy about it, but I could accommodate her knowing, in all likelihood, we wouldn’t be seeing her again. It all worked out okay – I guess. I just have to say that I’ve never heard of anyone cooking quartered potatoes for three hours, but apparently it was her specialty.

The following year, when we gathered at my mother’s house, we were right back in our groove, dancing around each other, grateful for the opportunity to come together and laugh and enjoy the day. We didn’t know it would be our last Thanksgiving with her. I thought we’d be dancing in that kitchen forever.

When November arrived, the year my mother died, we realized Thanksgiving had become a time we all looked forward to. We’d miss not getting our families together. In honor my mother, my niece offered to host Thanksgiving at her house which meant we’d each only have to drive an hour-and-a-half. It was very sweet of her. We’d continue the same tradition of bringing side-dishes and doing as much of the work ahead as possible. Being a new mother, in a new house, with newly acquired in-laws can be exhausting, and as plans shifted from hosting our family of six, to hosting her eight in-laws as well, we had to change plans. We moved our Thanksgiving to Saturday, so the in-laws could gather on Thanksgiving Day, but my poor niece. Even the most superhuman host would be hard pressed to manage two Thanksgivings. We had to come up with a better plan.

I offered to host at my house, but what if no one wanted to drive three hours for the day?

“Well, you’re the matriarch now,” my sister informed me, “so yes, let’s have it at your house.”

“That’s great,” I said, and added, “but I want to start a new tradition. If we gather together the Saturday after Thanksgiving, the kids won’t have to decide which family to spend the actual holiday with, and everyone can bring their leftovers. We can all relax and enjoy our time together.”

And that’s how our new tradition of Leftover Thanksgiving got started. Our first year we had turkey tetrazzini, the next year we had turkey sandwiches with all the fixings. I’m still not game for turkey soup, although I suppose it might be worth a try. As long as we have Indian pudding and family – why not?

“No, we’re not eating lunch.” My friend Janet said. “We’re having hot fudge sundaes for dinner, remember?”

“What does that have to do with lunch?” I asked.

My stomach was hungry and I was getting a little shaky. We’d been water skiing all morning and I was ready to eat.

“A hot fudge sundae has a lot of calories,” Janet reminded me, “so if we don’t eat lunch we’ll stay within our calorie limit for the day.”

“Oh” was all I managed to say.

I didn’t get it. But Janet was the smart one in our teenage duo. We had become friends in ninth grade when I was put into an accelerated algebra class without ever knowing algebra and as Winnie the Pooh says, “that’s a long story and even longer when I tell it,” so I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, because Janet was thin and I was not, I looked up to her and her theory on how to be thin.

I love food and as much as I try to eat healthy, I do miss the mark sometimes. I mean, ice cream is a gift from the gods is it not? 😊

In my quest to eat healthy foods, I've found there's one thing that really gets me a bit riled up and that is how much stuff that’s sold to us as food really isn’t food at all.

We eat to nourish our bodies so they can have the energy they need to function – for cellular growth and repair and all the bazillion things a body does.

Your body can’t get that energy on its own, you’re the one who needs to supply it.

Not all foods are equal though and looking at a nutrient label may not give you all the information you need.

I like to eat and feel full which is why restrictive dieting never worked for me, even though I insisted on trying to control my weight for forty years.

A salad could only take me so far toward feeling satiated. And, if I’m being honest, I learned to really, really dislike salads, all low-cal foods, and dieting in general. Which begs the question, when you don’t like something, if it brings forward feelings of loathing, why are you continuing to engage? Well, for me, it boiled down to that size six dress in my closet. Or maybe it was the pants that absolutely needed me to eat salads for lunch and dinner in order to fit.

Truly, this is no way to eat nor is it any way to live.

I received the results of my fasting glucose and A1C tests the other day. Prior to receiving the results, I had been listening to Dr. Mark Hyman’s podcast the Doctor’s Farmacy where he was interviewing Jessie Inchauspé, a French biochemist and author of Glucose Revolution and The Glucose Goddess Method.

One of the things that Jessie and Mark talked about was how even though the medical standard for our fasting glucose levels might be 65-99mg/dL, 99 is way too high to be a norm. They both agreed that 85 or lower was a better marker and Mark Hyman was more comfortable with the numbers at around 50(ish)!