The cranberry sauce

As important as the turkey is for Thanksgiving dinner, it’s side dishes that make the meal sing.

You have the mashed potatoes and gravy. Then there is the dressing or stuffing. There are all sorts of vegetable options – sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. My mother makes a delectable creamed carrot and onion dish that is just for Thanksgiving. There’s sauerkraut, of course.

Then there is the cranberry sauce.

Turkey might not vary much from table to table, but cranberry sauce can take various forms.

Some people have homemade recipes, and those can be delicious. When we go to Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house, however, there are two versions of cranberry sauce on the table, and both come from a can.

My parents like to make sure there’s something for everyone, so they always serve both the jellied sauce and the whole-berry version. If you stop by for Thanksgiving dinner, you’ll find each jiggling cylinder sliced into magenta circles of sweetness.

As the dinner begins, I always love watching everyone fill their plates with all the warm, cozy food that’s been cooking all day. Then they spy the cranberry sauce, freshly pulled from a can, served elegantly with the can ridges still showing. Even if your plate is full, you will always make room for just a little bit.

You have to, of course. Cranberry sauce is the cherry on top of the meal. It’s the icing on the cake. It’s the sweet-and-tart bridge to carry you from the feast to the desserts.

One of the reasons I love the cranberry sauce from a can is how little stress it adds to the Thanksgiving food preparation. The other dishes require planning and measuring, chopping and sauteing, sprinkling and cooking, careful monitoring to make sure nothing burns or boils away.

Cranberry sauce? You pull that off a shelf in the store and carry it home. You open it minutes before people come to the table. A child can do it – and I remember how at some of my earliest Thanksgivings, I opened the can of cranberry sauce myself. I felt so grownup as it slid out of the can with that glorious “schloop” and landed on a plate to be served.

My mother will tell you that I still offer to bring the cranberry sauce when we dine with our family for Thanksgiving. It’s simple and necessary and appreciated. It’s something I can do – and she never complains if that’s all I bring, especially if we are in a particularly busy season as a family.

I like to think that God looks at us that way, too. Sometimes we might be able to make two pies and an appetizer and the green bean casserole. But there are times when all we can do is pick up a can of cranberry sauce from the grocery store and slide it onto a plate. God knows what we’re capable of, and he sees all that we are carrying.

Those are the times, of course, when we need him most. Those are the days when we need to fit in a daily Mass or just a few moments of quiet prayer. When we are drowning in life’s expectations, we need him more than ever. I like to think that God is waiting, trusting, walking with us, even when we feel we aren’t doing anything significant for the world.

“Arm yourself with prayer rather than a sword,” St. Dominic said. “Wear humility rather than fine clothes.”

Sometimes all we can bring to the meal is cranberry sauce from a can and a prayer, and that’s all right. After all, Thanksgiving dinner wouldn’t be complete without it. And what a gift that God loves us just as we are.

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