“What did I do with it? What did I do with it? It has to be here somewhere; I just know it does.” I had been searching for over an hour. Every cupboard had been gone through and every nook and cranny combed, but still nothing. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d found any number of other things I had “lost” or didn’t even remember I had in the first place, but not the one, very important thing I was looking for.
In just over two weeks’ time, our house would be overflowing with grandkids, adult children and various neighbors and friends for Thanksgiving dinner. At last count, we were to be twelve in all and that number, as I warned my very generous and “take in all strays” husband was not to be exceeded. Why? Because my best china is only service for 12 and you can’t set a festive holiday table with mis-matched dishes! I mean, what would Martha say?
Yes, we were hosting dinner on my hubby’s most favorite holiday. The blessed bird had been ordered, having followed very explicit instructions from the lord of the manor that it be “not one ounce less than 25 pounds.” Lists upon lists of appetizers, side dishes and desserts had been drawn up, revised, re-written and revised again.
There was only one problem. In addition to mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce and sweet potato pie, my grandmother’s special stuffing was on the menu and, try as I might, I couldn’t find the recipe. The dish was a sure-to-please family favorite and Thanksgiving dinner would simply not be the same without it. I had literally torn the entire kitchen apart looking for it to no avail and, with everything else I had to do to prepare for this, I was starting to stress.
Of course, the all-important dinner had priority, but there was more than that. I also had to prepare for having three grandchildren, their parents and a dog stay with us as houseguests.
There were beds to ready, bathrooms to clean and a fridge to stock with favorite drinks and snacks.
“I know,” I mused. “I just need a short break, and I’ll rejuvenate.” A few minutes later, I was sitting on the loveseat in my office, my lap covered by my favorite cozy Tinker Bell blanket.
As I put my feet up and sipped a cup of soothing chamomile tea, I thumbed through my favorite Ina Garten’s cookbooks, looking for a stuffing recipe that in any way resembled my grandmother’s. Before you knew it, I dozed off.
“How did you do it?” I asked my grandmother in my dream.
“Do what?” she asked quietly. I could feel the blanket being pulled over me, as she so often did when I was a child.
“How did you manage such a wondrous meal at Thanksgiving and with so many guests too.
The table was always set perfectly; even the “kids table” was decked out with little wine glasses for our toast. You made it look so easy, like you had performed a miracle each time.”
My memory of Thanksgiving at her house was warm and rosy as childhood remembrances often are. In my dream I happily recounted a cozy fire, laughter, and the good company of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The huge dining room table groaned under the weight of what seemed like a 50-pound turkey, with enough mashed potatoes and stuffing to feed an army, and homemade pumpkin and apple pies for dessert.
My grandmother laughed. “Easy? Are you kidding, easy? It was anything but. The fire you recall wasn’t from a fireplace but from the coal stove in the kitchen. I’d be up at dawn getting the turkey in the oven so we could eat precisely at noon.”
“Didn’t Grandpop help?” I asked, certain that she could not have done all of the prep herself.
“Are you kidding me?” came the swift reply. “Your grandfather didn’t help a whit! Neither did your dad or his brothers. Your mother and her sister-in-law and I worked hours to get everything perfect and ready. All so your grandfather could be the master of ceremonies and carve the bird. Then, when dinner was finished, the women did all of the cleanup while the men dozed in front of the television, watching football. It was always the women who pulled off the “miracle” and made it look easy!”
I awoke with a start. I experienced a new appreciation for my foremothers and couldn’t help but think that perhaps not really all that much has changed. Without explanation, in everyday life, women continue to perform take-it-for-granted marvels every single time.
I gathered up my books and as I rose, a slip of paper fell from one of the cookbooks. Lo and behold, it was my grandmother’s stuffing recipe. I couldn’t help but smile - another miracle had occurred. Thanksgiving dinner would be marvelous after all.
© 2024 Annie Sokoloff
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