Uncertain about the direction of this column, the e-mail was imminent. With deadline passed, it was just a matter of time till, “Plath, you are late,” from our timely, inspirational editor. In the midst of an “honesty is the best policy” day, I fessed up when the message arrived: “Sorry, but what I have sucks.” Holiday issues are warm and fuzzy, admittedly not my strong suit. “Help? Writer’s block,” I claimed for the first time ever, tickled at my legit use of such an official literary phrase.
“Why don’t you write about the traditions and background of how a successful restaurateur” celebrates the holidays, he suggested. Ha! Now we’re cooking, I thought. Traditional? This is going to be rich.
As I (thankfully) pondered my 25th Thanksgiving together with my wife, one thing was certain: We soon would be debating where to spend the holidays this year, New York or Lowell.
Growing up in New York the son of a (sort of) Jewish, once almost hippy, whale loving and compassionate mother, and a Protestant-Scottish-French-German-etc., helping-hand father in an environment of converted religious Unitarian compromise, my certainty was … so much was uncertain! The spirit of my “religion” was one of questioning. (Lest my parents be offended, the reality of my religion was also one of tolerance and understanding.) Kids would ask, “What’s Unitarian?” I’d reply, “Sort of Jewish plus sort of Protestant equals sort of Unitarian.” “Oooh,” they’d question. “Then what do you celebrate?” Gleefully, with perhaps a slightly sardonic tone, I would reply, “Not going to church!”
In painting our New York Thanksgiving picture, include my beautifully unique siblings, foster-like brothers, any of Mom’s Big Brothers Big Sisters sisters in a given year, developmentally disabled former patients of Dad’s, any combination of loving-spirited-welcomed friends in transition (or not), and generally a revolving, small smattering of blood relatives, and the next certainty is a holiday table as colorful as fall itself and a diverse buffet of difference that more represents Oprah Winfrey than Emily Post!
Or, will we stay in Lowell — the birthplace of my first born, my wife, and her father before her, in an atmosphere of generational bounty, where impish cousins chase one another in stubby neckties, where added folding tables almost seat all, where a strict start time and prayer precede the sherbet “aperitif,” hot and buttery mashed potatoes (sans vanilla), warm and fluffy stuffing (sans oysters), fork tender sweet potatoes (sans melted marshmallows), the annual coo of “best turkey ever,” matching, gleaming service ware, and praises to God offered each year by the patriarch who never, ever, forgets to say “… and be kind to one another.”
And so, with both restaurants closed so that all of our amazing and beloved employees may celebrate their own blessings, it is certain I will make it to this family meal. Of course, these days we ponder which daughter(s) may make it home for the holidays, whichever home is chosen. Will they join us for next-day holiday shopping amid the sparkle of holiday Manhattan? Or, in Lowell, who will join in the annual pre-pie walk around the old neighborhood? Who will be the first to nap, or to sneak away for football?
With destination unknown, this much is for certain: There will be warmth and great spirit of community, two types of pumpkin pie, an appreciation for the plentiful (or the “bounty we are to receive”), many toasts with as many laughs, big beautiful hugs and just as much unspoken love — a genuine, for certain gratitude for all that we have and for having each other.
Thank you for reading, and Happy Holidays.
Scott Plath, along with his wife Kathleen, own Cobblestones of Lowell and moonstones, in Chelmsford, MA. Scott possesses a deep well of humorous and insightful stories that he will share with us regularly.
A View from the Kitchen – A Tale of Two Cities
“Why don’t you write about the traditions and background of how a successful restaurateur” celebrates the holidays, he suggested. Ha! Now we’re cooking, I thought. Traditional? This is going to be rich.
As I (thankfully) pondered my 25th Thanksgiving together with my wife, one thing was certain: We soon would be debating where to spend the holidays this year, New York or Lowell.
Growing up in New York the son of a (sort of) Jewish, once almost hippy, whale loving and compassionate mother, and a Protestant-Scottish-French-German-etc., helping-hand father in an environment of converted religious Unitarian compromise, my certainty was … so much was uncertain! The spirit of my “religion” was one of questioning. (Lest my parents be offended, the reality of my religion was also one of tolerance and understanding.) Kids would ask, “What’s Unitarian?” I’d reply, “Sort of Jewish plus sort of Protestant equals sort of Unitarian.” “Oooh,” they’d question. “Then what do you celebrate?” Gleefully, with perhaps a slightly sardonic tone, I would reply, “Not going to church!”
In painting our New York Thanksgiving picture, include my beautifully unique siblings, foster-like brothers, any of Mom’s Big Brothers Big Sisters sisters in a given year, developmentally disabled former patients of Dad’s, any combination of loving-spirited-welcomed friends in transition (or not), and generally a revolving, small smattering of blood relatives, and the next certainty is a holiday table as colorful as fall itself and a diverse buffet of difference that more represents Oprah Winfrey than Emily Post!
Or, will we stay in Lowell — the birthplace of my first born, my wife, and her father before her, in an atmosphere of generational bounty, where impish cousins chase one another in stubby neckties, where added folding tables almost seat all, where a strict start time and prayer precede the sherbet “aperitif,” hot and buttery mashed potatoes (sans vanilla), warm and fluffy stuffing (sans oysters), fork tender sweet potatoes (sans melted marshmallows), the annual coo of “best turkey ever,” matching, gleaming service ware, and praises to God offered each year by the patriarch who never, ever, forgets to say “… and be kind to one another.”
And so, with both restaurants closed so that all of our amazing and beloved employees may celebrate their own blessings, it is certain I will make it to this family meal. Of course, these days we ponder which daughter(s) may make it home for the holidays, whichever home is chosen. Will they join us for next-day holiday shopping amid the sparkle of holiday Manhattan? Or, in Lowell, who will join in the annual pre-pie walk around the old neighborhood? Who will be the first to nap, or to sneak away for football?
With destination unknown, this much is for certain: There will be warmth and great spirit of community, two types of pumpkin pie, an appreciation for the plentiful (or the “bounty we are to receive”), many toasts with as many laughs, big beautiful hugs and just as much unspoken love — a genuine, for certain gratitude for all that we have and for having each other.
Thank you for reading, and Happy Holidays.
Scott Plath, along with his wife Kathleen, own Cobblestones of Lowell and moonstones, in Chelmsford, MA. Scott possesses a deep well of humorous and insightful stories that he will share with us regularly.