Trudging over a rocky path of painful childhood memories, I forget the occasions where hurt didn’t prevail in some manner. We all do that. I think.
Don’t we?
A week ago saw me rushing around in my usual frenzy right before Thanksgiving. My oldest daughter and her two beautiful little boys were visiting from Florida, my home was a pleasant combination of playful noises and organized chaos with my grandchildren running around, anticipating all that turkey day would bring.
Cooking preparations started last Wednesday as I busily worked in my kitchen grilling bacon and sausage; next to the indoor grill, in a large saute pan, vegetables simmered away in sage, ginger, rosemary, marjoram and other spices all tucked inside a little Bell’s Seasoning box. This mixture, along with the meat, would soon marry with cubed seasoned bread to become fragrant, and delicious, turkey stuffing. Except for music softly drifting in from the living room, things were quiet until I heard a familiar voice from behind asking “Did you put apples in the stuffing?”. No one was there but the voice was undeniably my Mom’s. Before Alzheimer’s took charge, those words were part of her yearly Thanksgiving repertoire and, once again, they started playing in my head. Silently, I answered Mom, telling her “yes, of course I put Apples in, don’t I always?” and heard her give her usual sigh of annoyance with me.
End of conversation.
She was never what could be defined as a creative, or adventurous, cook. Mom made just the basics each week, mostly to suit my father’s feeding demands and I was never allowed in the kitchen to watch, or learn, what she did; when I married, it was a mad scramble to purchase and read every cookbook I could get my hands on just to get beyond the ability to boil water. Over the last 40 years I’ve amassed quite an admirable library of written culinary treasures.
That’s one positive thing I can thank my mother for.
She enjoyed Thanksgiving more for the leftovers than the actual dinner each year, making sure to remind me about what food items she wanted to take home at the end of the day. Shopping bags would be packed with containers of Turkey, Stuffing, Sweet Potatoes and more plus carefully wrapped plates of all the desserts that were served. For the next week, or so, I would get a call each night from her telling me that “it was like Thanksgiving all over again” after she re-heated all the holiday food booty, stashed in her refrigerator, for dinner. Probably one of the few honest statements Mom ever made remains embedded still in my mind….”I don’t know where you learned to cook, it sure wasn’t from me!”
No Mom, like so many things, I did it on my own but I’m glad you enjoyed all my hard work. And, by the way, thanks for not throwing away all that Tupperware when Alzheimer’s started helping you clean house years ago.
Tonight, it will be Thanksgiving all over again, at my house.
