LETTERS FROM HOME: PARENTS APPROACHING THE MEATLOAF YEARS

Dec. 28, 2000

Dear Julie,

A giant step into their 70s, my parents are active and vital. My father still has two part-time jobs, and they both play in a jazz band. Two or three times a year they drive to Cincinnati to see the grandchildren. Still, signs of aging are surfacing. Call it the Meatloaf Syndrome.

I can never remember a Christmas dinner in our family without turkey and dressing. It's possible there were some years when a ham was substituted. I don't remember them.

What I remember is awakening to the smell of roasting turkey, and later on the din of all the preparation required of making dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, cranberries and the rest. The sensory anticipation of what is to come makes the climax so sumptuous.

In making plans for this year's get-together, my mother announced that the centerpiece would be a ham my brother had shipped from Tennessee. And to make sure there was enough food for the constantly changing size of the crowd, my father had seized upon the idea of a meatloaf.

Meatloaf for Christmas

Meatloaf for Christmas. We've become a Dickens novel.

Even homeless people have a turkey dinner on Christmas.

If this were an experiment in humility, a way of teaching what Christ taught, that the poor should be first among us, that would be one thing a good thing. But this was my dad's idea of the perfect solution to any problem: easy and well liked by all.

At Thanksgiving, DC's mother announced that she no longer would be cooking a whole turkey for the holiday in the years to come. The whole rigmarole takes too much time and energy. In the future, turkey breasts will have to do.

Having lived long and well seems to have that effect on people. They dispense with those things that are troublesome and get down to the essentials. Even if that's molded ground beef.

Last week at his mother's funeral, my old roommate said she'd been trying for years to get all three of her children to come home for Christmas. How sadly he pointed out that she had finally succeeded.

Having the children come home for Christmas means something special to parents, but the time must come for everyone to pass the turkey baster on to the next generation.

I said no to meatloaf. Though we couldn't provide the buildup of smells and sound, I promised my mother we'd bring the turkey and dressing.

But Christmas morning, my stomach was twisting instead of reveling in the aroma of roasting turkey. I'd gotten the flu.

When she returned home Christmas night, DC said my dad confided in her that hosting Christmas dinner might be getting to be too much for them. She told him we'd happily take over. She didn't tell him the reason we haven't offered before is that we know we'll never do it as well.

Love, Sam