One of the most exciting events to happen to me this year was moving into a new home. I have moved many times during the course of my life and have lived in many different places but what makes this one particularly exciting is that I finally have enough space for all the belongings that I have carried with me since leaving home decades ago. Over the years, these belongings have diminished from when I first left from being regularly purged as I moved through different periods of my life (and an unfortunate storage unit theft while in Colorado). There has, however, always been a few boxes of items that I have held on to. Mainly kitchen and home items (and one that seemed to have been filled by dumping desk drawers directly into the box, taping it shut, and proclaiming it valuable) but a few contained keepsakes and childhood memorabilia.

It was in the course of unpacking one of these latter boxes that I found an item that caused an audible laugh, a guffaw if one was to have been in vicinity and needed to describe it later on. This item can only be described in the very way in which it describes itself: the Refill Plate. An elongated oval of light grey ceramic shaped roughly by small hands and clearly bearing the word “REFILL” proudly in dark grey lettering. Bits of black ceramic stuck to the outsides of each end give evidence to where small handles once were but, other than those missing parts, it is wholly intact.

To tell the story of this plate we must journey back in time to my youth, a time when I was more idealistic and far more driven by food.

Thanksgivings in our home were not as often depicted on television. There was no high ceremony of carving the turkey, no family members coming from far distances with exotic dishes, and there was no “team” of family members collectively cooking in the kitchen. More often than not my sisters would be in their rooms doing whatever teenaged girls did, my brother, having likely procured a box of matches, would be attempting to light something on fire, and I was either reading a book in my own room or half watching the Macy’s day parade with my father. Meanwhile, upstairs, my mother was madly stirring, chopping, and basting. Sometimes even stirring, chopping, and basting the correct dishes.

We did, however, have a few traditions for the holiday. It was during this time of year that the old, electric roaster would make its appearance. A device that looked to have been styled in the 1950’s, had a lid that never truly closed completely, and I’m sure was a delight to the billing agency of the local power company. “The Fischers are roasting a turkey, we’ll get our Christmas bonuses again!” This was brought out not because we didn’t have a working oven nor that the turkey would not fit but, because of the many other dishes my mother baked alongside the turkey.

Thanksgiving was, as it is for many, the feast of feasts. Our table would be laid out with a smorgasbord of dishes, numbering higher than we owned serving dishes which caused spare plates and the odd baking dish to be used in their place. The extra leaves for the table would also have made their appearance, extending the table from its usual six feet to a whopping nine feet. When finally called to dinner we would bound up the stairs to be greeted with such a variety of foods laid out before us that we, as children, would all mentally strategized our first rounds in the mere seconds it took to cross the room to the table.

Center stage would be the turkey meat; shavings of which mounded above the serving plate, mostly white meat surrounded by the tantalizing treasures of dark meat. Often, a single leg would protrude from the side of the heap for the lucky sole that uncovered its bulk first and was able to carve off their just reward. Surrounding the turkey was our annual offerings of side dishes. There was always enough mashed potatoes to be an homage to Idaho with accompanying gravy. A veggie plate of celery, carrots, radishes, turnips, and scallions (then descriptively called “green onions”). Black olives offered entertainment as young fingers still fit where the pits once were. And then, only revealed from under the kitchen towel once my mother had joined, was the basket of the finest bread rolls the bulk food store had available. We all salivated as the steam rose from the basket when she pulled back the towel.

Inevitably somewhere on the table would be a small plate with the cranberry sauce. This sauce, and I use the term very loosely, had been freshly slid from its can with a satisfying “schloop” sound and placed directly on the plate remaining in its upright position. Still visible would be the rings from the can’s shape prompting each of us to take turns shaking the little plate and watching the purple gelatinous form jiggle. Eventually this would be laid on its side, cut into discs, and doled out.

Another delicacy that only made an appearance this time of year was my mother’s green bean casserole. A divine creation made by pouring a can of cream of mushroom soup over a baking dish filled with green beans and once baked to a mouth scalding temperature, topped with what could only have been deep-fried shoelaces. I had helpings of this Midwest treat. This dish was in fact so tied to Thanksgiving during my youth that seeing it served out of season at buffets caused me much confusion for years. Some families have their fruit cakes, we had the green bean casserole.

Cooling elsewhere in the kitchen would be the pies. My mother often make a few for this feast but at least one would be pumpkin. These were made with the freshest fillings scooped from a can, plopped unceremoniously into the center of the graham cracker pie crust, baked, cooled, and topped with enough whipped cream to no longer see any evidence of pie. I always reserved just enough space for at least two helpings.

What amazes me looking back on this time now is how my mother was able to pull off such a feast with the meager income we as a family had. It was only in the odd year that our parents would splurge for a ham, a favourite of mine. Usually pre-cooked and warmed in the oven just prior to serving, this block of meat was hacked and chopped apart into chunks suitable for the space allocated to meat on each of our plates. Only after leaving home and grocery shopping for myself did I learn that you could purchase this delectable hunk of beast pre-sliced in a fancy spiral giving you those wonderful slabs I only saw on TV for a minimal extra of what was often a dollar.

Once the meal was complete, I would be left in solitude with the remaining serving plates pushed to my end of the table and the other family members scattering back to the recesses from which they had emerged. I would quietly remain solo at the table for some time, attending to the shear level of hunger I possessed with the peace the holiday provided. What I’m trying to relate to you, dear Reader, is that Thanksgiving was not so much about family coming together but, that I, as a very hungry, growing boy, could once a year feel satiated.

For you see, our home wasn’t what one might label a “happy home.” I grew up with a father often angry at all that was beyond his control and a mother whose primary parenting tactic was ensuring we were out of the house occupying ourselves, a task we were often more than happy to do. Most meals were eaten somewhat quickly, providing just enough sustenance to send us back on our way. If we dared to voice that we might have been bored we were promptly reminded that our parents “were not there to entertain us.” My summers were therefore filled with team sports and church camps, neither of which I had the slightest interest in, primarily as a way to have the Fischer children anywhere but home.

Also, as a growing boy, I had simple logic. Basic drives with simple goals. Many of which were driven by acquiring large amounts of food. This leads us back to the plate in question from the beginning of this tale.

In one of these fateful summers of local activities that kept me occupied and away from the house, I was enrolled in a pottery class. We made simple things: strangely shaped trinkets, a misshapen mug and, in my case, a serving plate. While making our mugs we were taught how to press in clay of another colour resulting in patterns, words, or images in the mug’s walls. Having recently learned how to write my name in Japanese, I made an attempt at combining the two resulting in a mug with a “neat” design on the side. These same markings proudly state the Refill Plate’s rightful owner.

Now, imagine if you will, a boy with an insatiable stomach plunked into a summer pottery class and given the task of creating a plate for the serving of food with the fresh knowledge of how to put words into ceramics and the idea of the Refill plate comes clear. You see, my dear Reader, my logic was as simple as my desire. If I could read the word “REFILL” I had very obviously cleared the plate of its nutritious contents and the only choice would be to follow the instructions revealed before me by once again filling the surface with glorious food. I had created the winning argument for my mother questioning if I really needed another helping. I was removing all internal doubt I may ever have about eating subsequent servings. It was, as is so popularly said these days, my past-self looking out for my future-self. It was youthful genius.

These days I don’t eat as much as I did during this time of my life. I still very much enjoy food, I just eat slightly less. Finding this plate tucked deep in this box that has been moved so many times, having survived the decades since its creation, and to only suffer the  loss of the handles is a testament to the lasting and ever-present hunger I possess.

So, as you sit down to the holiday feast this year, I hope the ridiculous and silly innocence of your own youth finds a way to your table. Enjoy it and give the cranberry sauce a wiggle for me.