Can you see those houses in the back? They remind me of my aunt Marisca’s house, my mom’s sister in a beautiful village. The little house was by the green field with cows and sheep eating the grass. I remember my cousin Dorina and I walking there after a summer rain and picking mushrooms in a small basket. The air was crisp, the sun ready to take off his PJ’s and get into his playing shorts. Sometimes the shepherds’ dogs would see us, and we would run across the field with mushrooms falling over the basket. Aunt Marisca would make us eggs and mushrooms for breakfast, and crepes with cream cheese. That house is still there, but I haven’t see it in many years. My aunt is not young anymore, but her beautiful face is still young in my heart. I give thanks for her. Happy Thanksgiving, folks!
One of the biggest things beyond cutting the pig in winter in some cultures, was to cut a turkey. I remember when mom and dad would go to the Farmer’s Market and come home with a living turkey. I didn’t like turkeys. I thought they were mean. Anyway, that day dad had the turkey tied up to a stick in our common yard and he got in the house to do some preparations. I was about 4 or 5 years old and pretty bored at that time of the day. I knew a song to sing to make the turkey spread its feathers and put on a ferocious look. I sang the song, and by the time dad came to cut the turkey, our bird was offended, mad and ready to jump on me.
When dad came outside, I rushed inside and covered my ears. Mom went in the yard carrying a basin. The whole event had brought together some of our neighbors,who were talking and sharing recipes.
Mom made soup, turkey roast and turkey cabbage rolls, which none I liked. They insisted and bribed me to taste them, but I ended up eating mashed potatoes with pickles.