There was a circus-like energy of innocence and joy that surrounded the Guzman holidays. Throughout my childhood and right up until I went away to college, I lived for our Thanksgiving dinners which always began the day before on Wednesday. Rushing home from school, I opened the front door and inhaled the aroma of deep-fried cornmeal patties, the scent wafting past me into the cool air of a Michigan November. My mother stood at the kitchen table kneading masa, sprinkling water then salt then Crisco onto the dough, her rolling pin off to the side already doused in white.

Mom was the only mother in the neighborhood who hand-rolled flour tortillas, the other mothers probably making Polish paczkis or German pudding. When Mother saw me, she half-smiled then nodded her head towards the thick corn patties piled high on a serving platter.

“Wash your hands before touching the food,” she always said.

My job was to break up the cooked yellow corn patties until they were in small bits and pieces. This was the beginning of her homemade turkey stuffing. Five peeled boiled eggs were on the table waiting for me to separate the whites from the yolks, the yellow round balls making their way into my mouth to keep me from shoving a desired yet limited corn patty instead. When I finished with the patties and the eggs, my mother would pause her rolling pin mid-air to glance at the gizzards boiling on the stovetop.

“Be sure to rinse those in cool water before you cut them up.”

“Of course,” I’d say as if I hadn’t done this a dozen times already. But she knew my childhood excitement outweighed my common sense as it had times past, the roof of my mouth developing welts after I’d taken a boiling hot gizzard directly out of the pot and placed it onto my tongue, trying to cool the too-hot meat by sucking in air as I chewed.

After chopping up the cooked egg whites, I diced ripe red tomatoes and stiff green peppers, the cooled gizzards harder to slice because of the thickness of the muscle and the delicacy of my tween fingers. Once I finished, Mother pulled a larger bowl from the cupboard and began tossing with her bare hands, the yellow and the white, the red and the green, and finally the brown, moistening the batter with the simmered juices from the neck of the turkey.

The entire corn mixture was stuffed into a 25-pound Butterball, but it was only one of the meats served on that holiday as Mom also cooked a ham and chicken mole and carne guisada. A table needs that much animal flesh when there are ten mouths to feed. And those Mexican dishes were supplemented by Mexican rice and fideo and of course the freshly rolled flour tortillas. Next to these traditional dishes were our American dishes of mashed potatoes, fresh corn, green beans, salad, hot rolls, and cranberry sauce. It was this combination of American and Mexican cuisine under one roof that made our holiday meals so unique. It was the same mix of who we were as a family, to ourselves and to others.

The morning of Thanksgiving Day, I’d wake up early to iron the “good” tablecloth. While I did this, two of my brothers pulled apart the dining room table so that the leaf could be inserted and the eating area lengthened. Once the leaf was set, all the freshly washed China plates – used only four times a year — were placed around the table. As I finished placing water glasses then silverware and napkins by each setting, my sister would bring out the last of the China: the delicate sugar bowl and the gravy boat. This always caused me to lick my lips as I thought about the warm, dark drippings it would hold– always refilled twice– my mother made sure of it.

Already, Mom would have opened the oven door with one hand while her other hand held a yellow baster, ready to suck up turkey juices that could be squirted in every place imaginable on that bird (this was before turkey bags were invented).

“We want her to be moist!” Mom would say as hot liquid spilled over the tawny skin.

While our stomachs growled and our patience waned, that turkey was finally placed in the center of our table, on my mother’s largest platter, with the ham and chicken mole placed on opposite ends. Side dishes were put wherever there was an open space. Once my mother surveyed the table for its perfection, she announced that dinner was ready. It would be exactly 2 o’clock.

The television was turned off and my father was summoned from the bathroom where he did his best newspaper reading. Mother forbid us from eating until the blessing was given. Only my father was allowed to lead our Thanksgiving prayer, which was a long drawn out mini-speech about food and love and family. We only knew the prayer was finished when we heard “Amen!” followed by, “Okay then …let’s dig in.”

Dishes were passed around, lots of “Mmmms” and “Yummms” as we all counted how many plates of food our brother Dave would consume. It wasn’t just the number of plates Dave had, but the height of food piled on top that was amazing. His record stands at three plates, three inches high. Of course, once we had eaten as much as our stomachs could hold, the table was cleared and the pies were brought out. Somehow, through all of this cooking, my mother had managed to bake a homemade apple pie generous in butter and brown sugar – but only one – to complement the store-bought pumpkin pie. And no matter how many times we claimed to be full, we all still ate our pie.

When I started hosting my own Thanksgiving dinners as a young adult, I wanted that same atmosphere found in my parents’ home — one of togetherness and sharing with people you love.

I still use my mother’s stuffing recipe although I cheat and bake the cornbread instead of deep-frying it. I can make her apple pie, even her Mexican rice, but the rest of her dishes escape me. Although I use turkey bags, I will sneak in one or two good bastings because I’m convinced this is what makes my turkey just a tad more moist.

And Thanksgiving dinner in my home is always served at exactly 2 o’clock.

(Thanksgiving 2024 will be celebrated with friends and I’m bringing two homemade pies: a cherry cobbler and a Granny Smith apple pie)