Southern Legitimacy Statement: I have dual citizenship in both the South and the Midwest. I am a new writer, reborn by discovering writing in my 70’s (years, not the decade.) I love the South–the food, the music, the lakes and rivers (well, not the snakes therein.) Upon meeting my Green Bay born husband, I was moved (kicking and screaming) to the Midwest and the Northeast. Well, Florida, too, but South Florida may have a southern name but it has a northeastern heritage. I’m originally from Pine Bluff, Ark. so I’ve had to adjust.
Ghosts of Thanksgivings Past
Turkey can be cooked in lots of ways: deep fried, buttered all over ensconced in a paper bag, in the oven with continual basting, roasted on a spit or turned upside down on a roller coaster, it all tastes the same.
But the sides!!! Ah, the sides. This is what truly makes Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving. Besides giving thanks for our lives, our families, our countries and our faiths, give thanks for tasty tidbits contributed by sisters, mothers, nieces and nephews from recipes handed down since Plymouth first hosted the Pilgrims and the Natives of the New World. (Actually, probably just from my grandma.) Often, there were stray dishes proffered by one of my Mother’s ‘project’ friends whom she felt couldn’t be alone on Thanksgiving. Here one year; gone the next. A new guinea pig annually.
Growing up in the South in central Arkansas, Thanksgiving was a three day event in our household. Well, more like a week if you count grocery shopping. Even at a young age, my sister and I contributed: Washing and folding the ‘Sunday best’ tablecloth, napkins, washing out sparsely used pots and utensils and readying the house for company.
Sister Jayne and I had to deep clean our one bathroom ’till it didn’t look like it was used multiple times a day by a family of four (one being male, enough said.) Also we had to dust everything in sight including our hardwood floor. Jayne and I would put the dust cloth on our feet, run and swoosh across the living room on the magic dust cloth. Well, maybe that was just me. I got away with more shenanigans; Jayne was the older, more obedient sister. She also must have been allowed in the kitchen to help more while I was considered ‘under foot’ because to this day (many, many, many) years later, I still consult her on Thanksgiving recipes. Someone in the chilly leaf-gone Midwest has to represent the Southern taste-bud tingling contributions to the festive table even if I’m the only one to eat them. My Midwest friends cook bland, everyday side dishes. Bland mashed potatoes, bland corn, bland packaged gravy.
They think sweet potatoes, green beans and cranberries come from a can and that dressing is from a Stouffer’s box or from thick, lumpy, greasy white bread. Truly, they would be better off to put pictures of their dishes on the table and order out KFC. Besides tablespoon size portions because-I-don’-want-to- hurt- your-feelings of the bland display, I only eat my own dishes of Southern sweet potatoes with tiny marshmallows, and cranberry relish with lemon curd. Yum!
I remember Mother’s made-the-day-before appetizer consisted of a huge 26 quart roaster of heated Chex mixes with pretzels, different cereals, Bagel chips, salty nuts, small crackers and lots of spicy powders which were usually not allowed for our under-age palates. You just kept eating; you couldn’t get enough. Then, the next day Mother cooked the turkey in that same roaster with cornbread dressing made with fresh oysters and giblit gravy using the neck, heart, liver and gizzards from the accommodating turkey.
When my husband and I were raising our kids, Thanksgiving was more of an event than just a meal. Living in the Midwest, Thanksgiving was mostly prepared by Midwesterners with their boring local recipes so I had to add some excitement. There were five or so families so all wives (yes, just the wives.) brought dishes to share, with the hostess always cooking the turkey. The women assembled and finished cooking the meal, set the extra tables and chairs for the five-family, 22-plus guests, while the men watched NFL football (always The Lions) and the kids and any significant others hung out down in the basement. Basements are another great thing about the Midwest.
At half-time, everyone gathered for prayer and The Meal. I was the dedicated prayer-giver since no one else would step up. One Thanksgiving I remember giving the prayer and including a special blessing for the first from our group of kids who now had a spouse. The prayer must have been longer than usual, because right in the middle of it, my husband said, very loudly: “AMEN.” Rude, but effective. Subsequent Thanksgiving prayers have been truncated.
After the no-more-than-20-minute-meal (including prayer), the wives again retreated to the kitchen to clear, rinse, wash, clean, and dry the dishes. My particular forte was washing with one rule: No one could put a dish with food still on it into my dishwater. I mean, Yuk, who could continue to wash dishes with clumps of potatoes or half-eaten green beans floating around defiling the mostly clean water? One wife who was a dirty-dish-depositor that I yelled at was most offended. That’s okay, I made a mental note to never eat off dishes at her house again.
While the women worked cleaning up the kitchen and dining room, the kids–even the newly-married ones all went to the cinema together. The husbands: back to more football. That actually hasn’t changed much over the years, except now more women also opt for football.
Once the kitchen was cleaned, kids returned from the movies, and the football contests were decided, all five families gathered in the living room for some sort of Family-Feud game created by yours truly. I love games; my family hates them for they always come in fifth place. Not sure if it was because they were trying to send me a ‘Stop-It’ message or if it was because I was moderator and not participant or because they just weren’t as smart/interested/informed as the other families. Couldn’t have been the latter. Could it?
Today Thanksgiving is just football and food. My husband refuses any hint of games. The kids have all grown and celebrate Thanksgiving with their own families. My friends are all Midwesterners so my meals are mostly bland.
Next year I can either go to the movies solo, eat in an Ethic restaurant, invite my sister up to cook The Meal here, or I can use the weekend to escape from the chilly Midwest to a warmer climate. Hmm. I wonder what they eat for Thanksgiving in Key West?
“I want people to know their palate is a snowflake”. We all like different things.” Gary Vee.
