I had many beefs with my childhood home, but I am eternally grateful for one dominant feature, or characteristic, of that home: friends were always welcome, and they knew it, and they came.  Often.  My mother would greet them with "I hope you brought your shovel, so that you can dig your way in", and everyone laughed, and found a place to sit (usually moving something to a pile on the floor to clear a seat), and settled in for good company and good times.   And often good food. 

My family didn't have much money, but that was never allowed to influence how often guests were welcome.  The rule was that my mother would "add more water to the soup".  If dinner was something with a fixed number of servings, like pork chops, we were always permitted to share our serving with a guest if we chose to invite them.  And people came, knowing that was the case.  There was room at the table, and room in their hearts for guests. 

This lesson was a profound one.  As in my childhood, I am happiest when those I care for are at my table, enjoying a good meal and good company.   I'm not a bad cook, though I'm very bad at cooking day in, day out, putting healthy food that interests me on to the dinner table.  But for guests, it's amazing what I can do, even in the smallest kitchen in the developed world. 

Perhaps that's why I'm particularly perturbed, as Canadian Thanksgiving approaches.  My life-partner's parents arrive tomorrow, and will stay through Thanksgiving.  But I'd also like to include the refugee family we've been involved in sponsoring.  And so far, at least, we cannot figure for the life of us how we'd get seven Gashi's to our home in one vehicle, nor how we'd make room for eleven people at our dinner table. 

If there is one meal each year that cannot be turned into a buffet, especially if the idea is to convey to refugees and visitors from the US the bounty and spirit of Canadian Thanksgiving.  Yet, it is clear that our home, as generous as it is in many ways, cannot handle eleven people at a sit-down dinner.  At least not without renting tables and clearing space in rooms meant for other purposes.   Even then, it's likely to be less than optimal.

I know myself well enough to know that I don't take kindly to disappointments of this kind.  I have a picture of what I want this Thanksgiving to be, and I can't figure out how to make it happen.  But the disappointment in this case goes beyond pouting about a wish, a desire I can't make real.  It took me time to figure out what the deeper disappointment was about.  It's beyond the pouting kind of disappointment.  It's even beyond the sadness over not being able to recreate the nostalgic part of my childhood.  It's about not being able to express, to live my spirituality.

Part of my Jewish heritage, of course, is that religious holidays are as much about food as about spirituality, but this is different.  It's not my heritage, it's my personal way of expressing my connection to the universe. It's celebrating.  I think celebrating, creating celebratory ritual, is the way I can feel the bonds I share with others -- to the earth, to the seasons, and to each other.   Surely, I keep telling myself, there is a way to make that work this Thanksgiving, even it's not trying to fit eleven people into a dining room that optimally holds six, can hold eight, and has even been known to stretch its walls to barely contain ten.  The challenge is practical and spiritual. And there are ten days to meet the challenge.   Stay tuned.

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