With Thanksgiving just two weeks away, I find myself reflecting on the holiday traditions of my childhood. This year has been a whirlwind of medical appointments for both Terry and me, along with work and the usual hustle of life. Amidst all this chaos, I’m incredibly grateful for the much-needed vacation we took back in March. Cruising from Miami to the Dominican Republic, St. Thomas, Tortola, and the Bahamas was fantastic, even though we came back with COVID-19. But today’s post isn’t about this year; it’s about the Thanksgivings of my childhood.
My mom always had the best intentions in the kitchen, even though she wasn’t the best cook. She did excel in certain areas, and she always tried to make Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving special for our family. This sometimes included our extended family, mainly my Aunt Beverly and Uncle Gene. Mama loved turkey, but she never quite mastered cooking it; it was never undercooked, just dry. Despite using the instructions on the label, the turkey always came out that way. When I started cooking, I managed to get it right the first time. My dad was amazed, noting that after 20 years, my mom couldn’t perfect it, but there I was, nailing it on my first try. I spent a lot of time at the library in Milton, Florida, reading old cookbooks from the 1950s and 1960s. These books had plenty of tips and recipes, especially for making a whole turkey, which families cooked year-round back then. One essential tip that turkey labels should include is to pour a generous amount of chicken or vegetable broth into the pan to keep the turkey moist from the start.
Mama mainly stuck with ham for Christmas and Easter, but she knew my dad and I loved turkey, so she felt obligated to make one at least for Thanksgiving. I’ve always preferred turkey over ham, even if it’s dry. But I do enjoy ham too.
The week before Thanksgiving, Mama would already have done all the grocery shopping. She made the cornbread for her dressing a few days in advance and started baking sweets the night before. Pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and sweet potato pie were her specialties. Her sweet potato pie used the same ingredients as the pumpkin pie, except she substituted sweet potatoes for canned pumpkin. Both were amazing. Mama also made divinity, fudge, and a fruit salad with fresh and canned fruit. Her fudge was delicious, old-fashioned fudge, but she loaded it with pecans, which I hated. I was never a fan of nuts due to their texture. I loved her divinity too, but it was also filled with pecans. I learned to suck on a piece until it melted in my mouth and then spit out the nuts. My dad hated when I did that and would slap me on the back of my head, but it worked for me.
Thanksgiving morning, I’d wake up to the smell of coffee brewing. I loved coffee back then, but my parents didn’t allow my sister and me to drink it. Becki, my sister, recently told me our parents thought it was bad for us. I suspect they were worried we’d use up too much sugar and milk. I drink black coffee and always did when I snuck a cup, so they had nothing to worry about. I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while Mama worked in the kitchen, preparing turkey, cornbread stuffing (ingredients similar to those found in the Better Homes and Gardens and Paula Deen cookbooks), candied yams, green beans (never green bean casserole), mashed potatoes with giblet gravy and other fixings.
After the parade, Mama, Daddy, Becki, and I would sit at the kitchen table, stuffing ourselves with everything Mama cooked. We were always grateful for her ability to make everything but the turkey so amazing. After dinner, we’d shower, get ready, and head out to a Christmas tree farm to find the perfect tree. Return home and stuff ourselves again before decorating the tree before heading to bed.
In one of my upcoming blog entries, I'll be sharing all about our adventures at Christmas Tree Farms and our quest to find the perfect tree. Stay tuned!
Comments
Post a Comment