Thanksgiving means family. And for those blessed by geography, SEC football.
The two came together inextricably when my family moved from New Orleans to Little Rock in the late ‘90s, and of necessity created a new tradition. Hundreds of miles from family, homesick transplants, we did what comes naturally to New Orleanians: throw a party. So, three months into our Arkansas adventure, we invited my Baton Rouge family up for the LSU-Arkansas game on the day after Thanksgiving. They’d invite their traveling, tailgating Tiger comrades. We’d invite my entire office (just over 100 folks) and have a grand ol’ time.
In retrospect, maybe Arkansas wasn’t quite ready for “Razorback Gumbo,” as we themed the party. But hey, a Razorback AND a Tiger boiled together in the gumbo pot cartooned on the invitation. We were an equal opportunity haranguer, if not quite hog wild.
Thanksgiving (and family) arrived. Turducken, turkeys, gravy, French bread, Uncle Joe’s artichoke and green bean casserole, sweet potato and pecan pies and much, much wine were consumed. It felt a little more like home. We cleared the dishes, and set about the family tradition of making turkey-oyster gumbo. Leftover turkey meat aside, we set the carcass to boiling, along with bay leaves, salt and pepper, carrots, celery and onion, rich and aromatic stock. A few cold turkey sandwiches and beers later, we said goodnight to our first Arkansas Thanksgiving.
Friday was Roux Day (and Game Day and Party Day). Making a roux is a one-man job, best reserved for morning, while the household sleeps a little longer on yesterday’s turkey. Brown the flour with wicked-hot oil ‘til a nice dark caramel color emerges. Next, fold in the Cajun trinity: onions, celery and bell pepper, then last night’s stock and turkey. A quart of salty oysters waits until they’re added to the gumbo — along with their liquor — just moments after the game.
The party was not our proudest moment. Only a handful of my officemates showed up, somewhat cowed. They were outnumbered, out-eaten, out-drunk, out-sung and out-yelled by our Louisiana cohorts. They’d have had more fun if they’d known in advance their Razorbacks would trounce the Tigers 41-14. “Maybe they just don’t know how to party?” the New Orleanians wondered, quite seriously. It seemed a valid question.
Flash forward 13 “Battle of the Boot” games. Every game since that first “Razorback Gumbo,” we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving on the soil where the game was played — Little Rock one year, Baton Rouge the next. Repeat. Predictable as the tides — the definition of tradition. But, now this? The game has moved to Fayetteville? A lovely town, as I’ve come to know, but not home, not Little Rock. And three-plus hours is far enough to discourage the Bayou contingent in my family.
Times change. People change, too. Even families change. Traditions? Well, traditions remain, but sometimes only as memories. At the pivotal point, new traditions can jump into the action, like a kicker who’s been waiting for most of the game. And eventually, time makes these new traditions predictable. New traditions, take the place of old ones we’ve built our memories on.
Memories are as ethereal as the smoke from a touchdown cannon, making its way slowly over the roaring crowd. As solid as the immovable goal line. As visceral as the homecoming aroma of finely crafted gumbo. As permanent as the record book we measure our forward progress on. We will always have these memories, yes. But we can build on them something yet unrealized. And if the team’s healthy, and we call the right plays, and luck is on our side that day … they may be the best traditions yet.
(Thanks to Mary Goff for editorial assistance and insight.)