Growing up, Thanksgiving was over the top. Turkeys weighed in at 25 or so pounds, and leftovers nearly burst the doors off the fridge.

One year, I think it was 1976, Mom and I got the fancy idea to make chestnut stuffing for the turkey. I wish I could remember where we’d heard “chestnut stuffing” mentioned … in a book? A song? Either way, we decided it would be a fun mother-daughter project for Thanksgiving.

I know it was not her plan, but Mom bailed on me. Not her fault, but her back went out. Probably due to lifting a 25-pound turkey from the freezer into the fridge to defrost. Poor Mom.

Poor me, too! Mom had already bought several pounds of chestnuts. So I had to go it alone.

This is what they look like when you buy chestnuts from the store:

Following the instructions, I boiled a big pot of water and added the chestnuts. After a bit, they all cracked open, so I drained them and let them cool.

Then came the gross part. Peeling the little buggers.

I used a sharp knife and managed not to cut myself. The shell of the chestnuts was like leather. But I was able to peel the slices away – like an orange – one at a time.

What’s gross about that? Once you see the insides, you wish you’d stuck with mushrooms, onion, and celery for the stuffing.

Brains. Boiled and peeled chestnuts look like little brains.

Like something from a horror movie:

Thanks to Holly Gramazio for the use of her photo. She added this note: I made them into a cake, and it was horrible, the moral being that I apparently don’t like food that looks like peeled mouse brains.

Mouse brains! That makes it even worse! I chopped them up into tiny pieces and added them to the stuffing. I’m sure Mom complimented the new recipe (being Mom, how could she not?), but I didn’t notice any improvement in taste, just a creepy texture when I realized I’d just chewed a rubbery mouse brain.

Okay, so now that we’re greatly in need of a palate cleanser, here are two Thanksgiving poems Mom wrote long ago:

Cornucopia: For Thanksgiving, 1971

Cape Cod bayberry candles on the shelf,
and decisions I make in spite of myself.

Two goldfish swimming (one nearly died),
a winter jacket with cuffs inside.

A lobster dinner in seacoast Maine,
and the cellar dry in November rain.

Books and music and pencils going,
children and summer vegetables growing.

A day in the country, a day in town,
and being able to write it all down.

~ Joan Vayo November 18, 1971

And 28 years later, an empty-nester and grandparent to six, Mom wrote:

Thanksgiving 1999

I am thankful for the signs of Christmas
at Thanksgiving
not the flamboyant shopping ads
and congress in the stores
but one wreath in a window
a single song
an Advent calendar

Our pumpkins seedless now
will ease into the earth
the Indian corn give way to greens
as Christmas carols and candles
summon the Season to our home

~ joan vayo November 25, 1999

Every year it seems a few more of Mom and Dad’s generation are gone, adding an ache to our hearts. But their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren are thriving and our memories are shared, as once again we are thankful for all we’ve been given.

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“Cornucopia: For Thanksgiving, 1971” © 1971 and “Thanksgiving 1999” © 1999 by Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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