It is morning on Thanksgiving Day and things are already underway in the kitchen. Breakfast over, yeast dough rising in its bowl on the countertop. After breakfast, I made a “one more package of celery” run to the grocery store and picked up a carton of Mountain Dew since I was already there. Randa’s son, Jaylon, likes Mountain Dew and so does his favorite step-dad. Haydn and Asher are coloring when I get back from the store.

Grandma Randa clears the table in the breakfast nook and I sharpen knives, readying for the ritual of fruit salad. As far back as I can remember, fruit salad was part of Thanksgiving. Quite possibly, my earliest memory of helping out in the kitchen is tied to fruit salad. While they were growing up, I taught the tradition to my own children, having them help me with the peeling and slicing: oranges, apples, peaches, pears and grapes. Now, I am teaching the grandchildren.

Haydn and Asher remember helping last year and are eager for this year’s tasks. We put a few layers of newspaper on the table and start out with careful demonstration and supervision of grape bisection. After a few slices, Jay and I decide Asher isn’t quite ready for the Sharp Tools Division and switch him over to orange peeling. Somehow, it seems safer to put a spoon into the hands of a seven-year-old. Another two years sometimes makes a world of difference. Haydn finishes the grape detail while I slice and dice apples, peaches and pears.

I joke with the kids, flipping cherry halves into the bowl with a spoon. That is almost as funny as when the one bit landed a little to the left. Hence, the newspaper. I pretend that Grandma Randa mustn’t know that I’m giving each of them a whole Maraschino and they are predictably delighted to be in on the secret.

We finish up with each of them putting in a couple of small handfuls of pecan pieces and coconut and I stir it all together. We’ll add the bananas right before serving. Haydn and Asher run off to play and I clear the table, throw away the newspaper and wash the knives and spoon.

Maybe later, much later, they’ll remember this more than “Quit banging on the piano!” and “You guys quit jumping around up there.” I’m pretty sure they will. Somehow, it has always seemed that fathers need more forgiveness than grandfathers. A little fruit salad can go a long way.

H. Arnett
12-01-09