Thanksgiving
Down South we grow big families. Aunts, Uncles, and cousins all piled on top of one another at reunions, pond side fishin' at the farm, at baseball games, in the pool, and most especially at the dinner table. Holidays at Nana's house were a given, and if someone moved out of state they'd better have vacation time saved up come late November.
Because the food, y'all. Back then it seemed every Southern woman cooked things so good it'd make you slap your mama. Except she did it, too.
Granddaddy cooked the turkey and the pecan pie. Nana did the mashed potatoes and the dressing and the banana pudding and the Chicken and Dumplings. They probably both made other things but you've just read everything found on my plate through the years. My aunts brought the casseroles of every kind, desserts, and salads. And every year Aunt Sally burned the rolls.
My mama always brought a pile of dishes, including the fried chicken. And every year my mama and her children were at least 15 minutes late. This isn't a big deal really, until you ask the crowd of people waiting around especially for that fried chicken. It was good, y'all, the best you'd ever have. Male cousins would rush out the door to help get everything she brought into the house and on the tables, all the while glaring and mumbling at me and my brothers with their empty stomach growls. I guess it was safer to not blame the cook and risk being denied a chicken leg.
We held hands and were led in Grace by my Granddaddy. And sometimes those prayers were long. The kids would peek around the room at each other through one open eye while toes tapped and giggles were suppressed. It would be much later before we could fully appreciate those prayers or the man saying them.
The formal dining table could support 10 people, but was usually set up just for 8. Separated only by an open sliding glass door, the rest of us planted in chairs at folding tables in the Florida room, kids and grown ups alike, sharing stories and laughter over plates piled high with seconds and thirds.
Afterward the women would all descend on the kitchen for clean up, the men to the living room for football and naps, and the kids outside for baseball or a made up game of racing the cars. We'd go in granddaddy's work shed and poke around, sometimes picking up and pocketing one of the prettier stones from the loose rocks that made up the floor.
In the early evening everyone would head home with still full bellies and hearts, already planning on a repeat come Christmas.
This is a Southern childhood, y'all, the memories that lead to future longings for the Good Old Days.
So just go ahead and cut the bottom off of those burned rolls. Ain't a thing wrong with the top.
Because the food, y'all. Back then it seemed every Southern woman cooked things so good it'd make you slap your mama. Except she did it, too.
Granddaddy cooked the turkey and the pecan pie. Nana did the mashed potatoes and the dressing and the banana pudding and the Chicken and Dumplings. They probably both made other things but you've just read everything found on my plate through the years. My aunts brought the casseroles of every kind, desserts, and salads. And every year Aunt Sally burned the rolls.
My mama always brought a pile of dishes, including the fried chicken. And every year my mama and her children were at least 15 minutes late. This isn't a big deal really, until you ask the crowd of people waiting around especially for that fried chicken. It was good, y'all, the best you'd ever have. Male cousins would rush out the door to help get everything she brought into the house and on the tables, all the while glaring and mumbling at me and my brothers with their empty stomach growls. I guess it was safer to not blame the cook and risk being denied a chicken leg.
We held hands and were led in Grace by my Granddaddy. And sometimes those prayers were long. The kids would peek around the room at each other through one open eye while toes tapped and giggles were suppressed. It would be much later before we could fully appreciate those prayers or the man saying them.
The formal dining table could support 10 people, but was usually set up just for 8. Separated only by an open sliding glass door, the rest of us planted in chairs at folding tables in the Florida room, kids and grown ups alike, sharing stories and laughter over plates piled high with seconds and thirds.
Afterward the women would all descend on the kitchen for clean up, the men to the living room for football and naps, and the kids outside for baseball or a made up game of racing the cars. We'd go in granddaddy's work shed and poke around, sometimes picking up and pocketing one of the prettier stones from the loose rocks that made up the floor.
In the early evening everyone would head home with still full bellies and hearts, already planning on a repeat come Christmas.
This is a Southern childhood, y'all, the memories that lead to future longings for the Good Old Days.
So just go ahead and cut the bottom off of those burned rolls. Ain't a thing wrong with the top.
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