It all started with the Thanksgiving dressing. That, in and of itself, was a departure from my plans. I place all blame on the school district. See, we hadn’t planned on having Thanksgiving at all. Last year, for instance, the live-in kiddos went out of town. My sons always work on Thanksgiving Day. The college one generally has finals and can’t come home. It boils down to two empty nester parents without plans. We are fine with this situation, too. In the middle of holiday pandemonium, Thanksgiving Day is a calmness that we can bask in for exactly 24 hours before the storm of Christmas descends. Yet, the school did us dirty this year.
Our 9-year-old granddaughter came home on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving spouting ridiculous commentary about how she was looking forward to “all the food.” We inquired about said food. “You know,” she explained, “turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes – the ones with the marshmallows. Oh, and there will be pie, of course.” From the other room, the grandson, who doesn’t even like pie, enters the conversation with his cursory of course statement. Turns out, the school built a massive pedestal and placed a big old turkey dinner on the top. Two days later, the same children are rubbing tummies and speaking of future full plates in a voice that sounds like a cross between Louis Armstrong and the weird coach from the movie Waterboy. “Get in my belly,” was mentioned. “Gimme my plate,” was another comment. “Welp,” I said, wearily, “looks like I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner.” Time to get serious about the star of the show, my mother’s dressing.
My mother made amazing
dressing. She was taught by her mother-in-law, Annie Mae Stilwell. If you used the word stuffing in front of either of them, you might catch a backhand. Stuffing is for Yankees. Dressing is what proper southern women make. It takes months of preparation: saving all your bread ends, buying cream of celery soups to stockpile, chopping onion for days, making sure you have high dollar eggs on hand, accumulating loads of sage in glass bottles. Don’t even get me started on the cornbread. Kits are not used. Cornmeal in bulk is the only way to go. I live in fear of needing emergency dressing, to the point that my freezer is stockpiled with sourdough remnants 12 months of the year. It is a tall order, making the dressing when the dressing gurus are no longer here to supervise. They were both masterful cooks. I am not. I’m just a lonely middle of the road grieving woman trying to moisten my dressing with filtered water but using my own tears instead.
I cannot miss my mother without missing my daughter. It is as if they were the same person separated by generations. Both were so outspoken, outgoing, all the “out” things. To walk into a room with either of them was to feel the woosh of the energy that entered and exited with their being. They were magnetic. I would much rather walk into a room and watch from a back corner, but that never happened if either of them were around. If there wasn’t a raucous party ongoing, give either of them 5 minutes and behold as the electricity of movement took over. They were both so funny, too. Jokes for days, these two dynamic life forces had, their thousand watt smiles tripping breakers for miles around. Like an Oprah Christmas show, you get a hug – and you get a hug – and over there, you get a hug, too. No one is immune to the good mood they brought along, like a virus you never knew you needed.
There I was, in the middle of them, often. Family functions, school functions, dance recital functions – we did everything together. In the moment, it was problematic. I’m an introvert, a fact that is highly disputed by many. Here’s my condensed explanation. Introverts are often fun people. We would just never choose to be fun. We don’t want to do the things. Still, when you get us where we need to be, we have an amazing time. We may not leave our bedrooms for the next week, but the event will leave a pleasant taste behind. These two extroverts, on the other hand, craved all the peopling, lived for the limelight, loved every moment. I spent so many years in the middle of them, like the gooey center of an egg salad sandwich where the eggs weren’t quite boiled long enough. Without the crusty delicious bread on either side of me, I would have splatted onto the floor.
We had a wonderful Thanksgiving meal that satisfied the grandchildren’s wildest holiday dreams. We talked about everyone we missed, ad nauseum. We looked at pictures. We went back for seconds. It is hard being a crustless sandwich, my friends. My granddaughter is starting to show signs of being an extrovert. Perhaps there is hope for me, yet. If you’re missing your crust this year, my heart goes out to you. Take care of your gooey centers. Find yourself a couple of good extroverts and bask in their amazing light.
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