We never sat together
at the table, but
but we shared meals ...

warm fish chowder
delivered in a wide-mouth
mason jar.

He said it reminded him 
of Friday night fish suppers
and the chowder his
mother made when
he was a boy.

He marveled at the
dice-cut potatoes,
chunks of cod, and
the thin, soup-like
broth he slurped from
the bottom of the bowl.

He said after the
first spoonful he knew
the only thing missing
from the recipe
were his lips.

That made us laugh.

And then there was
Thanksgiving.

Year after year we
invited him in, but
year after year he
declined,

thanking us with
clasped hands
and a slight bow.

He wouldn't join us at
the table, but he welcomed
the overstuffed bag 
of Thanksgiving
we left under the hood
of the rusted-out grill
that stood in his front yard
next to the flagpole.

He was a Vietnam veteran
who greeted neighbors
with gusto.

Who, at the sight of you,
would fling his arm out
the driver's side window  
of his pickup truck to
deliver a broad wave.

Who'd yell, "Go home and
hug your baby."

Who every year, reminded
us to wear long sleeves and
bring a broomstick to push
back the thorny branches
and help ourselves to the
blackberries that grew
wild in his yard.

Who, the day after
Thanksgiving would
leave a message that
sounded more like
a love letter

for what he deemed
the silkiest mashed
potatoes he'd ever eaten,
turkey that had him
licking his fingers,
and pie so sweet
he could manage only
one or two bites
because he wanted more,

tomorrow.

Who would, no matter the
time of year, part ways by
turning his palms skyward
and say, "Every day's
Thanksgiving."

And we knew he was
right.

Yes, Irving, every day is
Thanksgiving.

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At the end of the block on the corner there's a garden planted on the edge of the road. It's tucked between the street and a stockade fence. It's so small, and jammed into such a small space, it seems more than a garden. It's a declaration. A fertile sign of determination and grit.

Someone wanted a garden and they were not to be deterred.

They wanted to grow peas, and tomatoes, and peppers. We know that's what's growing because they impaled the empty seed packets on sticks to mark what was in the ground. And we've watch them grow for weeks now.

There's a tradition in New England ... peas and salmon on the Fourth of July. Why? The salmon swim upstream this time of year, just when the peas begin to sprout.

I'm not sure the neighbors will pair salmon with their peas, but the garden's bounty is proof there's plenty to be savored when the seed of determination is planted.

A recipe of one's own

Forgive me, but I’ve never liked a boiled dinner.

I know. A lot of people like a boiled dinner, and for many, it’s the traditional meal on St. Patrick’s Day.

I’ve got a wee bit of Irish in me and I like to cook, but I had to find my way beyond the boiled dinner. It took some trial and error, but this has been my St. Patrick's Day dinner menu for a while now. And I won't say who, but even those who remain on the side of the boiled dinner have been known to ask for seconds.

St. Patrick's Day Menu
• Corned Beef (flat cut) with a brown sugar/mustard glaze
• Colcannon - mashed potatoes with sauteed onion and cabbage
• Roasted Carrots
• Soda Bread
• Chocolate Guinness Cupcakes

I sometimes make the cupcakes a day ahead, but otherwise make all the dishes the day we celebrate. Especially the soda bread. It’s best the day it’s baked.

What holiday dishes and traditions do you modify and make your own?