It
was a gentle nudge from a delightful dream. My eyes opened slowly as
my brain detected the delectable aromas wafting through the house.
“It's
Thanksgiving,” my sleep addled brain realized.
“Mom's
cooking her portions of the annual feast. Smells good. Wonder how
long she's been at it?” These were the thoughts rummaging through
my head as I tossed the covers aside and reached for my clothes.
I
pulled on my shirt sniffing the air as I pushed buttons through
button holes.
“MMM…
macaroni and cheese. My favorite dish,” I spoke aloud to myself.
There
was fatback in boiling water permeating the butter beans and the air
with its down home aroma. My mouth began to water. Oh, and there it
was the smell of pumpkin pie in the oven. Spices tickled my nose as I
closed my eyes to soak in the wonders of the day's offerings.
I
finished dressing then brushed my teeth. I peeked into my parent's
room to see dad still asleep beneath the covers. He wouldn't be awake
for a few more hours. I glanced at the clock. It was 7 in the
morning. I wondered how he could sleep so soundly with such a
wondrous aroma filling the house.
“Mornin'
mom,” I mumbled. “How long have you been up?”
“Oh,
I don't know. Early. I had to get these dishes started if I'm going
to have them there by 11.”
“Is
that when it begins?” I asked lifting the lid to the beans boiling
on the back burner. The steam gushed out fogging my glasses and
filling my thoughts with mounds of rice covered in these soft green
morsels.
“Is
grandmama cooking the turkey?” I preferred my mother's cooking to
anyone else's, including my grandmother.
“Yes.
She was given a beautiful 30 pounder by the Y. She's been up since
4:30 baking and basting every 15 minutes. It should be plenty for us
all.”
My
mother smiled, then asked me, “Do you want some breakfast? I can
move this pot of rice to get to a burner if you'd like some eggs.”
“No
ma'am. Thanks, but I'd just like coffee. Gotta save room for turkey
and all these good foods cookin' here.”
My
mother got up and put the full kettle on the stove. She reached for a
cup, then the jar of instant Maxwell House.
“I
can get it!” I said. Her expression was one of surprise. I'd always
sat back letting her serve me but of late my sense of independence
had begun to blossom.
“Sure
you can,” she said smiling. “You're growing up.”
She
sat down at the table while I stood waiting on the kettle to whistle.
Dad was asleep and mustn't be disturbed. Catching the kettle just
prior to its piercing sound of urgency was the same as easing doors
closed or walking in stocking feet so that there was absolutely no
noise to awaken dad from his sleep. It was one of the cardinal rules
of the house. Dad worked nights and the days for us were like those
of church mice quietly moving around. We were very careful to keep
the house as quiet as possible so that he could get his sleep.
Years
earlier I had learned my lesson about his needing his rest. It was
about 3 in the afternoon. I jumped off the bus at the foot of the
driveway driving my new shoes into the dirt. My foot kicked up a
shark's tooth from the crushed shell fill that lined the drive. I
picked it up marveling at it as I walked up to the door. Still
looking at the relic from ages past, I pulled the screen door open
and reached for the knob on the front door. It was locked. That
wasn't normal. I slipped the shark's tooth into my pocket then placed
my hands on either side of my face at the glass. The interior was
dark but I could see dad's form under the covers in the back room.
I
knocked on the door. Nothing.
I
knocked on the door again. Still nothing.
This
time I knocked louder.
I
looked toward my cousin's house next door and knocked one more time
almost breaking a pane of glass.
Before
I could close the screen and turn toward my cousin's a whirlwind
threw the inner door open and grabbed me by the arm. Words blistered
the air around me. I was over my dad's knee and his ham of a hand was
slapping my backside for all he was worth.
“NEVER
WAKE ME UP AFTER WORKING ALL NIGHT AGAIN!” he yelled in my ear.
Through
tears and squalling I choked out, “But the door was locked. I just
wanted to get in.”
He
held me firmly by both arms as I stood in front of him tears pouring
down my face. It was the first time I ever felt shear terror in my
home.
The
fierce anger-clouded eyes focused on me as if he didn't realize who I
was. I was swept up into his arms. He held me tightly then let me go.
He got up and returned to bed.
“You're
in now,” he shouted at me from beneath the covers. I looked into
the back room through tear filled eyes to see a form draped
completely by the bed covers. His head was beneath those covers as
well.
The
kettle whistled slightly as I yanked it from the burner. The stream
of water turned the brown crystals into a cup of black coffee. Into
that a teaspoonful of Creamora turned it a lovely tan.
“That
smells good. Would you fix me one, too?” asked my mother.
“Sure.”
I produced a cup for her. We sat sipping coffee as we watched the
clock.
“Those
pies should come out soon,” she said. “I baked two this year
since everyone wanted more pumpkin pie last year.”
“Everybody
loves your cooking, mom. You know that.”
“It's
nice to hear,” she said smiling into her cup.
There
was a knock on the door. It opened and Clyde peeked in.
“Everybody
up?” his voice boomed.
“Shhhh!”
said mom. “Al's still asleep.”
“Oh,
sorry. I just came over to see if you had any canned corn. I've gotta
get started on my corn pie and forgot to get corn from the store.
I've already got my other dish cooking so I can't leave for too
long.”
“I
think I have a can or two,” said my mother. She stooped down to
view the shelves by the stove.
“Yup.
Do you want both?'
“Yeah,
better be on the safe side. You are cooking your macaroni and cheese
aren't you?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “It wouldn't be
Thanksgiving without that.”
“As
well as your corn pie,” I chimed in.
“Maybe
so, nef, but there is no comparison with your momma's macaroni and
cheese. What time were ya'll going to Momma's?”
“Around
11,” said mom. “Mother wants to start eating between 12 and 1.
Everybody should be there by then.”
“All
right, then. Let me get this started and we'll see you then.”
He
left slamming the door on his way out.
We
both cringed. Silently we listened but there was no sound from dad.
“He
must really be tired,” I said.
“He
had a hard night I think. It will take a lot to wake him. I hate to
do that when it is time to go to mother's.”
“You
could let him sleep and leave a note.”
“We'll
see,” she said. The lid on the pot of beans began to rattle. She
got up to check it. She also opened the oven door to check the pies.
“Hand
me a broom straw,” she said.
I
got the broom and snatched one straw from it. I broke it in half
before handing it to her.
“Thank
you,” she said. She stuck it into the middle of each pie. It was
clean both times.
“Time
to remove them. Clear the table, please,” she said grabbing the
potholders. Out came one straight to the table. The second one
followed suit.
The
aroma coming form those two filled the kitchen with the joy of
Thanksgiving.
“How's
the macaroni and cheese?” I asked.
“It's
looking good. It should be ready soon.”
“What
about the rice for the beans?” I was thinking of the mountain of
green and white fatback permeated goodness that would be the base for
my piled high plate.
“Just
starting that now,” she said. The water was boiling in the pot she
had placed on the stove. Uncle Ben's lent his delicacy to the roiling
surface.
“That
shouldn't take long,” she said placing the lid on the pot.
We
sat a moment.
“I'm
going to mother's as soon as that is finished,” she said. “Do you
want to come with me or wait for your dad?”
“I'll
go with you. You're going to need some help with the dishes.”
She
smiled.
“Hand
me that pad over there, please.” She pointed at the desk next to
the wall.
She
wrote a note to dad. She knew he was tired and if he did not feel
like going to grandmama's she understood. If he didn't come we would
bring him a plate.
She
signed it, then placed it next to the teapot. That would be the first
thing dad would do upon waking, fix a pot of tea.
We
both knew he was not a fan of these annual meals. So we figured he
would wait for his meal to be brought home after everyone left
grandmama's.
That
done, she began to pack everything that was ready into the car.
Dishes and bowls were filled with her offerings for the 8 foot table
at grandmama's.
It
was around 9:30 when we left. Dad had still been sound asleep. I
helped with the transporting of blazing hot dishes from car to table.
The
back door opened and I was slammed with the rich overpowering aroma
of turkey roasting in the oven. Grandmama was practically inside the
oven basting the golden browned bird. I think I drooled at that
wafted fragrance.
“Hello
darlin',” said my granddad to mom. He was in light tan slacks and a
crisp white shirt, almost unrecognizable to me without his bib
overalls. He was smiling as he glanced over at the turkey being shove
back into the oven.
“Hello
daddy,” said mom. “Will you be carving the turkey?”
“Just
as soon as maamay says it's ready,” he said, smiling as always.
“You did bring your macaroni and cheese didn't you?”
“Of
course.”
Everyone
loved her dish. It was usually the first gone after the first round.
Everyone made it around the table at least 3 times every year.
The
table sat in the middle of the back room covered with a white cloth.
As aunts and uncles and cousins began to arrive, the ladies lined up
hot pads to be covered with dishes containing delectable temptations
from every family. Vegetables, potatoes, sweet potatoes, candied yams
covered in marshmallow sauce, rice, gravy, rolls, ham, meatballs,
corn pie, macaroni and cheese, and, finally, the guest of honor,
golden brown mouth watering Turkey.
“Is
it time to eat,” said one of the younger kids reaching for a roll.
His mother slapped his hand.
“Wait!
Like the rest of us.”
Granddaddy
picked up the knife and fork. With a huge grin he began slicing. It
sliced easily without crumbling. Grandmama's constant basting had
worked wonders for the moistness of the slices being placed on the
platter. The bird took a bit of time to cut away. The slices piled up
while all eyes were glued on them.
When
it was done, granddaddy laid down the knife and fork. He looked at
everyone and said, “Let us give thanks.”
He
prayed a short word of thanks ending with, “..and bless the little
cook.”
With
a rustle of movement we began inching around the table. Forks stabbed
at meat slices, spoons dipped into casseroles and vegetable plates.
Slices of cranberry sauce were slapped on plates. Rice topped with
beans was piled high, especially on my plate. Sweet potatoes and yams
were mixed along with healthy slabs of macaroni and cheese.
My
plate was over flowing. I had to find a seat before it began to
spill. I grabbed a spot on the couch in front of the coffee table. My
first plate of the season. It lasted about 10 minutes.
“Do
you want a glass of tea?” asked my mother.
“Let
me go around the table again. Then I'll get one, thanks,” I said
grabbing my plate to go back.
Once
again I piled my plate with such abundance that I didn't know if I
could finish it. But I would give it a hardy try. I added an extra
portion of Clyde's corn pie. He had outdone himself this year. Must
have been my mother's canned corn, I thought to myself.
Returning
to my spot I placed my plate on the coffee table, returned to the
banquet to rescue a glass of tea. The second plate took a little
longer but it was just as good. Everyone was heading back to the
table with empty plates. I joined them.
My
granddad from England visited one year. He and my grandmother were
here during the holiday season on their visit. When he saw the table
and its bounty he whistled.
“I've
never seen so much food in one place,” he had remarked.
After
we had returned home that day he sat holding his stomach.
“What
did you think of Thanksgiving?” I asked him.
“Is
that what it is called?” he asked. “I think it should be called
Glutton's Day.”
He
laughed after his comment then held his stomach following a notch
adjustment on his belt.
We
all began to moan with contentment when someone yelled out,”I want
dessert!”
And
desserts there were. Pies, cakes, cookies, fudge, and grandmother's
must-have: Whipped cream cake.
Every
year my mother would make the trek into town to the Piggly Wiggly on
Meeting Street.
“I
ordered it yesterday,” said my grandmother to my mother at the
first of the week. “They said it would be ready today. Would you
please pick it up for me?”
“Of
course I will,” said my mother every year. I would ride with her on
those excursions. That particular Pig was not my favorite one but the
bakery produced the best whipped cream cake in town, according to my
grandmother. It was huge. I'd have to hold it in my lap while mom
drove us back to grandmother's.
Into
the house my mother would carry it for fear I might drop it. She'd
place it on the dessert table allowing grandmother to open the lid.
She'd sigh then look around furtively and touch her finger to the top
pulling a bit from it. She'd stick the frosting covered finger in her
mouth a smile with pure joy.
“They
make the best whipped cream cake in town,” she'd say as stars
danced in her eyes. With one more finger touch she would close it up
and ask us to clear out the bottom tray of the fridge. Then she'd
slip it onto the shelf, look at the box longingly, and slowly close
the door.
It
was a ritual. And yet I never truly cared for that cake. But you
could see how much it meant to my grandmother. I'm tickled when I
think of her cutting here first slice every year. I believe it was a
little slice of heaven for her.
Approaching
the dessert table hesitantly I eyed mom's pumpkin pie. Should I?
Could I? Would I? You bet I would. I sliced a nice wedge. I piled it
high with whipped cream. I took it back to my spot on the couch and
slowly consumed it. That was my little slice of heaven.
The
day wore on as many of us dozed in front of the football game on TV.
My cousin Hayne used to love watching the game after eating his
plateful. I would smile at his enjoyment as I dozed with my aching
belly straining my waistband.
When
the game was winding down everyone would poke their heads back into
the back room to see if anyone would mind their taking some home.
“Of
course you can take some home. It'll be thrown out if you don't. We
could never eat all that.”
So
again the line would form as dishes were piled high once more but
this time to be wrapped with tin foil or cellophane so it could be
carried home. Folks began to drift out the door to return to their
homes. While that was happening my mother and grandmother would begin
gathering the dishes for cleanup.
My
dad would usually stay at the house so that we would fix a plate for
him and ourselves.
The
cleanup took from 2 to 3 hours normally. The sky had gone dark with
the setting of the sun when we took our leave carrying 3 covered
plates.
The
lights were on when we arrived at the house.
“Hello!”
we chimed in upon entering.
A
muted hello came from the TV room.
Mom
would immediately go to the back and offer dad the plate she had
fixed for him. He'd draw up a TV tray. She would unwrap it then place
it on the small table.
“Whoa!
You expect me to eat all that?” he'd invariably ask.
“No,
it isn't necessary. I just thought you'd like a little of each dish.”
“Dad
was right when he called it Glutton's Day instead of Thanksgiving.”
My
mother would just ignore his words. She traipsed back to the kitchen
to fetch silverware. The kettle I had put on the burner was
beginning to whistle. I'd put the pot next to the stove along with
the teabags. While she took dad his utensils I would make the tea.
I
went to the TV room to prepare the TV tray for the teapot, milk and
cups.
“You
should have come down, dad. It was fun to see everyone. And so much
food.”
“I
woke up too late to go, son. I had a hard night last night and just
wasn't up to it.”
“It's
OK. We did get you some of the food. Hope you enjoy it.”
“It
looks good. I'm sure I will.”
“I'll
get the tea.”
“I
could use a cup.”
Back
in the kitchen mom would be getting our plates ready and I grabbed
cups and the milk container. After setting those in place I'd fetch
the teapot.
“Mind
you don't burn yourself,” dad would say.
“Yes
sir.”
Then
we would all sit in front of the set and eat. Dad's first meal. My
fourth. I couldn't eat much but that was all right. It had been a
grand day spent with our whole family. The bounty of our celebration
was carved into the memory banks of my life never to be forgotten,
always to be enjoyed. ...and bless the little cook.
