Charlie sat on his deck under the leaden November sky, smoking his pipe and smoking his bird. He watched the volume of smoke from the grill chimney as the light breeze carried it away into woods and down the hill, towards the encroaching clusters of new houses beyond the brake. As the pipe drew less and less smoke and grew cold in his hands, he stood, grabbed his coffee mug (now also cold, and empty too), fumbled with the latch and let himself back into the house. The draft on the grill would do all the work for the next two hours while he moved on to making the gravy and potatoes. The kids would be bringing the rest of the dishes, including the pies (though Charlie had a couple on stand-by in the freezer, just in case). He checked the clock: no one should arrive for at least another four hours.  

Martha tutted as Charlie dropped his hat and coat on a kitchen chair. “You’ll just forget you put them there when you’re ready to go out again to check the bird.” Charlie just winked at her in reply. “Well, fine, don’t listen to me, but your coat doesn’t belong there. Do you have the potatoes peeled yet?”

“No, but I’m just about to start them.”

“Are you giving yourself enough time, dear? Won’t they be here soon?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Martha, I love you dearly, but trust me, I’ve got this.”

“Love you too! Always have, always will.”  

She turned and left the kitchen. Charlie watched her go, her long red velour dress swishing prettily just below her knees. “I remember that dress,” he thought to himself. “But I don’t think I’ve seen her in it for a good 30 years. Wonder where it was all this time.” He clicked on the radio and stopped briefly on a station that had already switched over to Christmas songs. “Bah! Not this!” He found a news and talk station instead, then dropped the volume down to a murmur, enough to fill in the silence. Charlie grabbed a colander and set it in the sink, then laid in what he figured would be enough potatoes to feed the coming rabble, and turned on the faucet to rinse them off.

While the water ran, he poured oil into a skillet and set it to heating while he cut up the giblets and some other vegetables for the gravy base. “Something still missing. Mushrooms!” He rummaged in the refrigerator till he found the packet of cremini mushrooms, then gave them a quick rinse and set them on the counter.  

Stacey looked around the corner, into the kitchen. She registered that her father was chopping the veggies, but what she really wanted was the pile of mushrooms. She waited till her dad’s back was turned, when he shut off the water and fetched the potatoes out of the sink, then dashed in with her brother Peter, and her sister Lisa. The three of them hid below the level of the counter where it stuck out from the wall like a peninsula and held their collective breaths. Stacey snaked an arm up towards where she thought the mushrooms awaited. “Ouch!” she yelped as her dad lightly slapped her hand with a wooden spoon, but her siblings had used that moment to grab mushrooms for themselves. Shrieking with laughter, all three tumbled out of the kitchen.

“You know, some of us were going to use those, you lousy cretins!” Charlie shouted after them. One of the kids blew a raspberry from the living room.

Charlie smiled as he tossed the sliced mushrooms into the skillet, where the rest of the base ingredients had begun to sizzle. He gave everything a quick stir, then put the lid on and turned down the heat to keep things from burning. Time now to peel the potatoes. One by one he dropped them, clean of their skins (though not too clean, he liked a little bit of potato skin mixed in), into the big stock pot. When all the potatoes were in, he poured in some salt, then filled the pot up with water and set it on the stove to boil. He stirred the skillet contents around, poured a fresh mug of coffee, and headed for the deck door to check on the bird.

He had just reached the door, and begun to grab for his hat and coat on the pegs, when he remembered Martha’s warning. “I told you you’d forget them,” she giggled. “They’re still in the kitchen, right where you left them.”

“How long have you been waiting to say ‘I told you so’?”

“Since you last came in, silly. Everything going OK so far?”

“Yes, dear, it’s all coming along fine. I’m just out to check the bird. The wind is picking up, and I think I’d better close the dampers just a bit.”

“Don’t forget your coat.” Charlie turned and glowered at Martha, but she just grinned at him in reply and stuck out her tongue.

“OK, before I go out then, you at least owe me a smooch for that.” He reached out to grab her, slip his arm about her waist, and pull her in, but she laughed and sidestepped.

“Later, love, later. I don’t want you distracted while the food’s cooking. And don’t forget your coat.”

“Tease.”

“Flirt.” She swished out of sight and headed upstairs.

“You sure you’ll be warm enough in that coat?” Charlie’s mother asked with concern. “It’s starting to snow out there.”

“I’ll be fine, mom. I won’t be out there long anyways, just need to check the dampers, like Dad said. Maybe put some more wood chips into the smoker tray.”

“I won’t enjoy the dinner if I’m worried about you catching pneumonia. At least put on a scarf too.”

“I will. I’ll be fine.” As Charlie headed out to the patio, his cousins Bruce and Charlotte caught up with him.

“You ready to get crushed at Risk again this year?” Bruce taunted. “We’re booting the babies out of the basement this year, they’re taking the attic, and everyone else says they’re in. I’m gonna be ready to war all night, if I have to.”

Charlie still had to look up at Bruce, though both had grown in the past year. “Really? Again with Risk? Last time you only won because I fell asleep at 3 and the rest of you just played me out. Got any other better games this time? Charlotte, are you gonna play with us too?”

“I’ll play if it’s the only game to play, but I’d rather do something different for once.”

“Ugh. What, you want to play Monotony again?” Bruce sneered at his sister. Charlotte slugged him in the shoulder.  

“No, doofus, but maybe something that won’t take so long.”

Charlie looked around to see if they could be overheard, then half-whispered “How about we play the trivia game that the grown-ups always end up fighting over? My mom says she bets she can make uncle Rob angry enough to quit early this year.” They all burst out laughing.

The wind had picked up, but the threat of snow seemed far off as the weak late-autumn sun scattered through the tree branches, giving the deck a dappled golden glow. The smoker, though, was running a bit too hot, so Charlie shut the dampers to lessen the airflow and burn rate. The smoke was a bit too thin too, so he pulled out the smoker tray and dropped in another handful of apple wood chips. Satisfied, Charlie took a deep lungful of the cold air, exhaled slowly, and slipped back inside. He heard Martha calling out “Hang up your coat this time!” This time he obeyed.

In the kitchen, the potatoes had started to boil. Charlie lifted the lid and probed a couple of the potatoes with a long serving fork. “Still too firm, maybe another ten minutes” he decided. The giblets, vegetables, and mushrooms, though, had browned up nicely enough that Charlie could pour in a couple of cups of water to turn the base into a stock. He looked around the kitchen, not quite cluttered enough to need to do a dish run, but it probably was not too soon to set the dining room table.

Martha had picked out a brand-new tablecloth and runner for this year, their first in this house, and the first where both sets of grandparents would be coming to them instead of them having to bundle the kids into the car and travel to either of their houses. Charlie’s brother had even promised to come with his family, though of course he would be late (he was always late). The tablecloth was a deep and vibrant red, the runner a cheery golden yellow. Their good china was finally being put to use.  

Stacey danced around the dining room singing some pre-school song about pilgrims, while Martha, seven-months pregnant and moving awkwardly, tried to keep Peter from driving his trucks across the plates.

“Stacey, that’s a lovely song, but could you please take your brother and go play in another room?”

“Mommy? When will grampa and gramma be here? And other grampa and gramma?”

“Soon enough. Now go play. Now! Before Peter breaks another wine glass.”

Charlie helped Martha ease herself into a chair. “Are we ready for this?”

She laughed a rather grim laugh. “You tell me. You’re the chef here.”

“No, I don’t mean the food. I mean… everything else. My dad and your mom don’t exactly get on with each other. And my brother’s wife…”

“It’s family, dear, we’ll manage. My family still gets together almost every year for this or Christmas, and then we’ve got another year to lick our wounds afterwards. I just wish I could be more help to you in all this. I’ve set the table, and now I think I’m done for.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’d love a glass of red. Failing that, hot tea?”

Charlie had just finished setting the table when he heard a telltale hiss from the kitchen – the potatoes had boiled over. “Crap!” he grumbled as he shut off that burner. “Well, I guess they’re done at least.” He hoisted the stock pot off the stove and carefully began to pour off the excess liquid into the sink. The steam blasted him in the face, which felt rather good as his nose was still cold from being outside.

“Now that’s a hot and steamy man,” Martha cooed from the kitchen doorway.

“Har, har, har,” Charlie muttered. “My glasses are all fogged up now. Step closer so I can see you properly.”

“Now who’s flirting? No, you look like you’ve still got a bit to do, and I don’t want to get in your way.”

“I love that dress on you, you know. When was the last time you wore it anyway?”

“Oh? This old thing?” Martha replied in her best / worst Scarlet O’Hara accent. “I think it was that one company Christmas party. Your boss tried to make a pass at me, and in trying to back away I caused someone to spill their drink on me. I had it cleaned afterward, but then I guess I just put it away.”

“I remember that night. You looked amazing then.”

“I remembered how much you liked it. I’m glad to wear it again for you too.”

“You sure you won’t come over here?”

“Be patient. But it’s starting to smell good in here. I wish I could help.”

“I’ll manage.”

Lisa sat on a stool and watched her dad work the masher. “The secret to good mashed potatoes,” he explained, “is that they are like sponges for whatever you want them to soak up. Me? I like butter. Sometimes chives too.”

“I like mine with lots and lots and lots of butter! And gravy too! Can you mash gravy with them?”

“Eh, uh, no. I don’t think that would work. Besides, the gravy isn’t ready yet. Hand me another stick of butter. Now the milk jug.” Charlie worked the masher for a few moments more, then scooped a small amount onto a spoon. “Here, try it.”

Lisa smacked her lips a few moments, then shook her head.

“What’s wrong? I know something is, can you guess just what?”

“Needs more butter?” Charlie shook his head. “Needs more hives?” Charlie laughed and shook his head. “What does it need?” Charlie handed her the masher.

“Here, you keep mashing, and I’ll add the secret ingredient.” She pumped the masher up and down while Charlie carefully added salt. “Now try it.”

“Mmmm! Yum! Just needs gravy.”

“Soon, dear, soon.”

Outside on the deck, Charlie checked on the bird. It was perfect golden-brown all over and had a lovely woody aroma. The meat thermometer read a solid 170 in all the right places too, so the bird was truly done. Charlie grabbed a pair of large grilling forks and carefully lifted the bird out and into a roasting pan, then he covered the pan in foil.

“…And that’s the real secret to the perfect turkey” said Charlie’s grandfather. “All the other work of brining, rubbing, and smoking, it’s all fine, but what you really need to do now is let the bird rest. Your grandmother has finished with all her cooking now, and the oven is still warm. We’ll tuck the bird into there for a good half hour or so, have a beer, then carve and serve. You’ll see.”

The turkey was resting in the oven, the potatoes were mashed and being kept warm in the microwave. Charlie melted butter in a saucepan and mixed in flour for the roux. He had already strained the gravy stock and separated the fat and oil, and when the roux was ready he carefully whisked the stock in. A perfect silky gravy formed in the pan. As he whisked, he heard the front door swing open, and the excited shouting of children.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” They shouted. “We’re here!”

“Hello, I’m in the kitchen just finishing up.” Lisa walked in and gave her father a kiss on the cheek.  

“Hi dad. How are you doing? Can I help?”

“Oh, all that’s left is carving the bird. You want to do it?”

“I’m lousy with carving, I’ll let Stacey do it. But I can at least put the other food out, and start the drinks too. Would you like a glass of red? I brought your favorite.”

“Yes, thanks.” Charlie poured the gravy into the boat, took the glass proffered by Lisa, and eyed his daughter up and down. “You’re the spitting image of your mother, you know.”

“Not quite, I’ve got Grandpa’s eyes, I think.”

“No, I keep those safely in a jar upstairs.” Charlie laughed so hard he had to put down his wine glass, and Lisa slugged him in the shoulder, while Martha smiled and shook her head from the doorway. “Where are Peter and Stacey anyway?”

“Peter will be here a bit late,” said Lisa’s husband Jack as he set down the infant carrier on the kitchen table and set about unbuckling their youngest, who was starting to fuss. “He called us and said something about having to go back and get his camera. And Stacey was just five minutes behind us.”

Lisa added, “and she says she has a surprise for you too.”

“Oh?” Charlie asked. “Any hints?”

“Just something about a thief making good.”

When at last everyone had gathered, Charlie’s father refused to let them eat until the family photos had been taken. He said that he wanted to get everyone while they were still awake and sober and happy, and not wind up with any fake smiles or glassy wine-fogged stares after the meal. This year everyone had come, for the first time in years, and for the last time of all – they all knew this was Grandma Rose’s last, and without her as the peacemaker some would just as soon stay away. Charlie was tall enough to be in the middle row, right next to Charlotte, and right in front of Bruce. The shutter caught Bruce giving Charlie bunny ears, and Charlie trying not to stare at Charlotte, who had become quite pretty indeed over the last year.

Peter was unapologetic about the delay. “The cameras on phones are OK, but they don’t have the exposure control or depth of field we really need. Plus there isn’t a selfie-stick long enough to get all of us at once. So it’s the good camera on a tripod and with a remote.”

“Yes, but why on the front porch? It’s bloody cold, and I’m in a party dress!”

Peter shrugged. “Only place we’d all fit. I’ll be quick, I promise. 5 minutes, I swear, and then we’re done and can eat.”

“Your grandfather would be proud,” said Charlie, “But I’m pulling rank and wearing my coat and hat.”

“Ugh, Dad, fine. But not the hat, I need you in the center of the group, sitting on this chair, and the three of us, with our spouses, right behind you. The hat’ll be in the way.”

The group finally arranged to Peter’s satisfaction, Peter stood out in the yard positioning the tripod just right, then fiddling with the camera a bit more. “Almost there. Almost … There!” He ran up onto the porch and stood behind his father. “Okay, on the count of three. One…..”

“Wait!” Charlie interrupted. “Not without Martha.”

“But she’s…”

“Shut up, Peter” hissed Lisa.

Charlie got up, shuffled into the house, and came out again a moment later, holding a large framed photo of Martha, happy, gorgeous, and shimmering in a red velour dress. It was a candid shot – Charlie had surprised her as she emerged from their bedroom. “Okay, now I’m ready. She ought to be here too.”

—————

In an icon, time, as we experience it, has no meaning. The past and present intertwine with each other in such a way that eternity itself can be said to have broken through. The icon invites us in to experience the fullness of that which it commemorates and depicts, for us to eternally participate in it. As we gather with our friends and families, in our own living memories of those who have gone before us, we and they too live in a moment of eternity, where the past and present intermingle with the futures yet to come for us. Let us remember them all.