by Kerry Dougherty

When you’re a mediocre cook, you have to find ways to distinguish yourself at holiday meals.

My mother, who perked up nearly all of her overcooked dishes with Lipton Onion Soup Mix, was respected widely for her punctuality.

And her eclectic collection of guests.

My parents regarded a holiday shared exclusively with family members as a sad sign of social isolation. To avoid that, they always were on the lookout for folks with no place to go. If an acquaintance mentioned that family lived far away, my mother would beam. Spend Thanksgiving with us, she’d suggest.

No car? No problem. We’ll pick you up. Be ready.

Holiday invitations were issued early, before anyone else could get to these hapless prospective guests. That is how a rotating cast of oddballs came to arrive every Thanksgiving. Any awkwardness at finding themselves in our misfit midst evaporated in the quick-step timing of our holiday gatherings.

A bachelor college professor was a fixture at our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables for more than 20 years. So was a widowed steelworker. They sat beside a single nurse, who’d served in the Women’s Army Corps during World War II. I recall several holidays with uniformed soldiers from Fort Dix at the old oak table. And at least one with an Indian family who’d bought a house from my father’s little real estate business and was unfamiliar with American traditions. Prime targets.

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