My alarm goes off just after 5am—and a few times after that since I can't seem to wake up without hitting snooze. My husband and I slept in the basement, in the room with the lime green carpet and wood paneling. It feels like yesterday that an ironing board, sewing patterns, and extra fabric sat where the bed now is. I can almost see my mom hovered over her sewing machine working on a dress or fixing a hem. This morning, though, she rests in her bedroom upstairs. I throw my feet over the side of the guest bed, fumble past the couch, and make my way up the steps.

We have to get the turkey in the oven early. A turkey for over twenty of us will take all day to cook, and somehow I got put on poultry-roasting duty despite having the least amount of experience as the youngest in my family. I walk into a kitchen bustling with activity. My aunt and sister are in full cooking mode. I’m relieved to find they’ve already put the turkey in the oven, and my habit of hitting snooze hasn’t put the meal behind schedule. My brother prepped the other bird for the deep fryer, and I’ve got a little time to sit before cooking the side dishes. I pour a mugful of coffee instead. 

The day is full of chaos and family, kids laughing and dinner cooking. Everyone once in a while, my mom steps out from her bedroom to check on things. We try not to ask her too many questions. Even though she’s not physically helping much, the busyness of the day exhausts her. Everything exhausts her in those final months. But we want this meal to be just like the ones Mom always made. We know full well she’ll never make it again. 

We munch on baked Brie and Texas Caviar while the main dishes finish cooking and a few people watch football. The kids get sent outside for some fresh air and a chance to run around. My one sister stirs a batch of gravy while my dad carves the turkey. We ask my mom last minute questions and have her taste-test what we’ve made so far. Dad wears the cow-print apron my mom got as a gift at least fifteen years before. He takes the carving knife from its case and transfers the turkey onto the oversized cutting board as Mom peers over his shoulder, sneaking a bite and offering a last minute nod of approval. The two of them hover over the food, a scene they’ve repeated many times, for nearly 47 years. 

We’ve set two large tables with seasonal tablecloths, wine glasses, silverware, and an array of home cooked food. It feels odd, celebrating together when my mom will likely not be there for that same meal next year. But it also feels like eating together is the only thing we know how to do. 

In the middle of the table sits a dish of cranberry sauce. It’s the jellied, store-bought kind, taken out of the can carefully enough to keep its shape. That’s the way my grandma always did it. You can see the ridges of the can running in circles around the deep red sauce. She didn’t bother to mash it up and make it appear the slightest bit homemade, although maybe we’ve exaggerated her presentation over the years. 

We laugh, remembering the sheer delight Grandma brought to the table in her unique way. She was one of a kind, a soul that knew joy tasted better than anything else. She died years before, and we still miss her. And somehow this silly dish of cranberry sauce reminds us of her. We smile and laugh and tell the same stories about Grandma Andersen that we’ve told a hundred times before. 

This year those stories feel more important, as if holding onto Grandma’s memory gives us the courage to face the coming years when meals with my own mom would be a memory. 

Mom’s terminal cancer is evident in the folds of her skin and her eyelids that droop in between bites. We remind her she doesn’t have to sit at the table if she needs to rest. She nods, but stays there with us. We’re all trying to hold onto this meal just a little longer.

You can hear the clink of forks on our plates, the noise of kids in the next room, and a few people getting a head start on dishes before the desserts make their way to the counter. Two turkeys, multiple trays of mom’s stuffing, mashed potatoes with all the butter and sour cream, Brussels sprouts sautéed with bacon, sweet potato casserole made for us by a family friend, and a whole lot more get passed and shared and wrapped up in to-go containers. 

Grandma’s cranberry sauce goes nearly untouched. We don’t care that no one ate it, especially because we had another dish with a homemade version. It’s still good for leftover turkey sandwiches, anyway. But Grandma’s “ridges still in it” cranberry sauce doesn’t find its place at the table because we’re all craving it. It’s at the table because we wish Grandma was. We need her to still tell funny stories with us and watch her grin as she observes the bustle around her. 

We need to be reminded that there’s laughter on the other side of death and joy even when someone lives in your memories. It deepens and changes as grief rains on it, but the joy won’t disappear altogether. 

***

Holidays have felt different the last few years, but I still make stuffing like my mom’s and Dad usually carves the turkey. I don’t think he has that cow-print apron anymore. 

This year, I’ll leaf through my mom’s worn out cookbooks and get teary as I read her elegant cursive on each recipe card. I’ll smile and shake my head, because she was terrible at accurately recording recipes. It’s funny the idiosyncrasies you remember about a person after they’re gone—those little quirks that made them who they are.

We’ll set the table with a tablecloth that probably came from Mom’s linen closet. Grandma’s cranberry sauce will sit proudly next to homemade mashed potatoes and platters of turkey. We’ll fill our plates and raise our glasses. I’ll divvy out kid-sized bites to my own children and ship them outside to run off excess energy while the adults sit and talk.

We’ll laugh and cry, recounting the same stories we’ve told every year—especially the ones about Grandma. 

And now the ones about Mom, too.

While I’ve got a can of jellied cranberry sauce in the pantry already, I still plan to serve a homemade version alongside it. This recipe adds in pomegranate arils for extra texture and a pop of sweetness. It’s also great to serve alongside Brie or goat cheese, pork tenderloin, or on top of cheesecake. Enjoy!

Cranberry Sauce with Pomegranate + Orange
Yields about 2 ½ - 3 cups of sauce

12 ounces fresh cranberries

¾ cup granulated sugar

½ cup pomegranate juice

¼ cup freshly squeezed orange juice

2 strips orange zest

1 cup pomegranate arils (requires about 1 pomegranate), plus more for serving

Pinch of salt

Grated orange zest for serving, optional

Add the cranberries, sugar, pomegranate juice, orange juice, and orange zest to a medium saucepan. Turn the heat to low. Cook, stirring frequently, for a couple minutes until the sugar dissolves. 

Turn the heat to medium and bring the mixture to a boil. Then reduce the heat back to low and cook for about 10-12 minutes, stirring frequently, until the cranberries have all burst. 

Remove from heat and stir in the pomegranate arils. Add a pinch of salt to taste (start with about ⅛ teaspoon). It won’t taste salty, but it will bring out the other flavors. Stir in additional sugar if you want the cranberry sauce to be sweeter. 

Cool to room temperature, and then chill in the refrigerator. The mixture will thicken as it cools. 

Serve with freshly grated orange zest and a few additional pomegranate arils sprinkled on top. 

Notes: This cranberry sauce is slightly more on the tart side, so you can add additional sugar if you want it sweeter. You could also try adding cinnamon, cloves, or other holiday spices. Cranberry sauce can also be stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator for about a week, so it’s easy to make ahead!