Remembering her favorite Thanksgiving

My favorite Thanksgiving happened years ago. I was a pre-teen. My parents and younger brother would climb into our green Dodge sedan and make the trek from Avenue M in Brooklyn to Washington Avenue in Cedarhurst.

My Aunt Sylvia had a perfectly decorated table with turkey, stuffing and salads as her closest family and friends arrived for this special event. The smell of autumn was in the air and a cozy charm of being in a house made the aroma of turkey and gravy even more inviting. Living in a three-room apartment, I was fascinated with the concept of the dining room.

It was like a scene from the television show “Mad Men.” Everyone dressed for the occasion. My mom, aunt and their friends were in dresses, and the men in sports jackets. Adorned in their finest jewels, they paid attention to each detail. The constant basting of the turkey meant fanciful aprons tied around anyone who went near the oven. They wanted the turkey to be succulent and perfectly browned.

My two cousins always seemed like Thanksgiving was bothersome, as they could be out with their friends doing something else. When they finished eating they asked to be excused. My brother and I never did that … for we didn’t have far to go in our small apartment. “Excused to where?” I would laugh to my self.

There were appetizers, soup, a main course and tempting pecan pie desserts. Each year it took hours to prepare, serve and clean up. I remember being glad I was just a kid and didn’t have to work too hard to enjoy this seasonal banquet.

After dinner the sky turned from grey to night. The whistle of the wind was a signal for all to start asking for their coats and to go home. I told my little brother that someday I would have a house like this and make a Thanksgiving meal for him and his family. He looked at me and laughed.

I do have a home in North Woodmere now and my family will sometimes come over to enjoy Thanksgiving. They are dressed in jeans and no one asks to be excused.

Every year when the leaves start to change color, I drive over to Washington Avenue, pull my car over and stare at the imaginary green Dodge sedan parked in the driveway. My handsome dad with a blue sport jacket and grey hat wipes down the window with his favorite rag to keep his car immaculate.

My mom climbs out of the front seat careful not to get her dress and coat wrinkled. My little brother Ira enters with a solemn look like he must attend to the business at hand. I have buckteeth and a huge appetite for delicious food I can’t get at home.

The world has changed so much since then, but Thanksgivings in Cedarhurst will stay with me forever. It holds cherished childhood memories for the family I loved so much.