A Thanksgiving Recipe

By Sydney Maxey

The muted gray and weathered maroon trimmed wooden home sets neatly off the side of a curvy, mostly untraveled road, in the small town of Navasota, Texas, where the woman rarely runs into an unfamiliar face.

Today is a day Mama Jewel, the mother of 12, will spend with family. Amidst her sun scorched lawn there is a gold Honda civic, a white four door Dodge Ram, an unwashed Altima and a litter of other makes and models of transportation. She feels joy at seeing every member of the family who has come to her humble home today, but her heart aches for the daughter that cannot be here, and will be spending the holiday alone in her ironed cell. Her heart remembers the husband she’s mourned going on 14 years next week. Her mind doesn’t forget her son, the chef, who’s making a name in Colorado. In the many faces she will see today she forgets not her son, Lawrence, who rarely is seen on these occasions but always makes it a point to phone in. She will not dwell on her absent children, not today, because today is a day for gratitude, today is Thanksgiving.

Today she wakes up at 5:45 a.m. She takes from her fridge the corn bread she hand-made two nights before. She chops onions. She chops green peppers and an egg. She dices a bit of turkey breast. And with these ingredients she makes her dressing. The dressing each one of her grandchildren looks forward to and tells their school friends of every Thanksgiving.
After the dressing, she bakes a cake, and after the cake she assembles a pie. And so on. And so on. Until the Thanksgiving feast is prepared.

Soon she hears the footsteps of her youngest son. If she knows him at all, he is already hungry. Shortly after, his brothers and one sister, accompanied by their spouses and children (and even grandchildren for a few of them), will clutter into the familiar home, all at various hours, until grace is to be said.

Mouths open only to take in the banquet of food, and between the football game playing in the background and dessert being served, little will be said but much will be enjoyed.
After several hours hugs and kisses will be exchanged and all around the brothers and one sister will begin packing up and heading back to their respective homes. Except for one son, his wife and two daughters. They are out-of-towners and stay a bit longer than the rest.
The eldest grandchild peers at her grandmother’s cake dish. And askes simply, “Big Momma, how do you make your cakes?”

“Child,” the grandmother responds, “Would you like to see my recipe book.”

The granddaughter knows immediately not to turn this offer down, and so she follows the 79 year old woman into the kitchen, her younger sister will follow shortly behind the two of them.
“Where are the cookbooks?” the granddaughter asks.

“I don’t own any cookbooks.” The grandmother replies as she pulls out a worn loose leaf piece of notebook paper.

In it, etched in light gray cursive are the grandmother’s most cherished recipes.
Suddenly the girl leaves the kitchen. In her hands, when she returns is a school notebook and pen. She copies furiously the ingredients on the first cake, as if they will evaporate if she doesn’t pencil them down as quickly as her hands will allow. It’s the 30 day cake, her father’s favorite.
As she begins writing, her grandmother goes through the recipe from memory. “Now, I don’t use 1 ½ cups of vinegar just 1 cup. Write that down there. And use only a 1 and ½ cups of sugar as well, not 2 ½. That part’s important.” As grandmother talks, the granddaughter pencils every word. Only pausing once. The granddaughter reaches down toward the stooped elder woman and smoothes her fine gray hair down with the palm of her hand.

Then, quickly, the granddaughter begins jotting away again, writing where she left off, copying the recipes on the tattered paper. Halfway through the next recipe, a visitor enters the home. A cousin.

Knocking isn’t custom in this home and so the cousin strolls in and gives the grandmother a long hug. The cousin will make her rounds, telling the wife of the remaining son that she looks as though she’s lost weight. Saying to the remaining son, it’s been too long. And then she will hug her younger cousins.

For a minute the recipes will be put on hold. The grandmother has already begun warming up leftover turkey, dressing and mashed potatoes. She prepares a plate and seat at the table for the wayward traveller. It is obvious to all, the cousin is hungry. But the family will not touch on that, or even what has kept the cousin from visiting so long. They will only enjoy the new visitor’s company. And reminisce about Thanksgiving pasts and hope for, God willing, many more to come.