Country Living, City Dining

Someone's at the screened back door. Set another place, there'll be more sharing this meal. A 1950's Thanksgiving features a large, round oak dining table, laden with food. There are so many dishes that a mottled grey metal folding table is pushed against the wall to receive the overflow. This room was once a bedroom where the childhood of my aunts and uncles unfolded. They're living in their own homes now but Daddy remains in residence here with his own family. We're eating at noon and yes, it is dinner. Southerners know that the evening meal is always supper.

When you live on a farm, it's the turkey's home, too. This magnificent bird will be sacrificed in a swift procedure I never can bear to watch. Our kitchen is immersed in aromas that today's Food Channel celebrity chefs cannot replicate. There are no recipes in view and scant measuring occurs. Ingredients are mixed together by 'feel.' My mother 'feels' a pinch is just enough or maybe three dollops will do. No cookbooks line her shelves and she's spent not one single minute carefully copying recipes from magazines or asking a friend or relative to share her culinary secrets.

The pantry is loaded with lard. It's used with alacrity and no awareness of the harmful effects this product has on the health of anyone who ingests it regularly. The word instant hasn't yet permeated a cook's vocabulary. On those very rare occasions when a pot of coffee isn't brewing or sitting on the back burner of the stove waiting to be reheated, my daddy might scoop a few instant granules in his cup and accept the totally inferior results. Never a coffee drinker, I cannot personally share his disappointment.

Mother always made dressing, not stuffing. Hers includes lots of eggs, thoughtfully provided by our chickens. Choppped onion and celery add a bit of crunchiness to the smooth mixture. Because exotic spices such as sage, rosemary, thyme, and basil were unknown on our ridge, she liberally sprinkles salt and pepper on everything. Daddy, a significant salt lover, scatters supplementary granules before tasting any food. Only then is he truly satisfied.

Sweet potatoes are mushed into a clear Pyrex dish and covered with marshmallow goo. String beans, lifted from our garden, are cooked beyond edibility and served sans garnish. Blissful biscuits, so bad for you, are eaten without regret. Cranberry sauce is jellied, dumped from a can. Nobody considers creating our own. Gravy is perfect, a light brown color, infused with little bits of turkey meat. If Granny is eating with us, there'll be ambrosia for sure. Loved by Southerners, this fruity concoction gently blends coconut, orange sections, sliced Maraschino cherries, and pecan pieces. Light and lovely, perhaps mostly healthy.

Around the table, our family of four expands to include anyone seeking a holiday meal. It might be a relative, of which there are so many, or a friend or somebody from church. All are welcome. The table is cloth-covered. We worry not about any spills, regardless of their potency. Daddy owns a dry cleaners and laundry so he'll be able to eradicate any traces of this meal that might have landed on linen.

Dinnerware is special but definitely could not be classified as fine china. Pink roses spatter across a white background. When not in use for Sundays or holidays, the set reposes in a nearby cabinet. I don't know the vessels' provence. Definitelynot old enough to be classified antique, perhaps they were a wedding gift for my parents. I never ask. It didn't matter then, but how I'd love to know the answer now.

The silverware isn't sterling but nobody notices. Today, that set rests safely in my guest room closet. I cannot open the chest without seeing family faces for whom these utensils were so familiar. No sterling could be more precious.




Southern meals are only complete when multiple dessert options are available. Coconut cake bristles with fluffy frosting, made at home. Pineapple cake contains a cooked frosting that is so moist the layers are wet. Lane cake is the most profligate with its nougat type frosting that deftly combines pecans, raisins, coconut and an enormous amount of sugar into.... well, heaven. Some diners have a sliver of each.

There's no texting during the meal, no phones to silence. Sounds come from satisfied eaters whose sighs say so much. There's little appreciation of the memories being born, the chance that the day can't or won't ever be repeated exactly as it is this one time. Cameras aren't lifted to capture the table and its largesse. In fact, there're no known photos of that bountiful table at all. It was so ordinary, so much a part of our everyday lives. Why memoralize something so mundane? I wish we had.

I'm the last one living of my immediate family members who gathered around that servicable oak table. My own version is now thirty years old and bears a few scars from decades of use. Mother sat at this table for twenty of those years. I know its special provenance, a gift from Daddy.

My menu differs considerably from Mississippi dining. No gravy graces the table. The turkey entree has been reduced to just the breast, based on personal preferences and its healthier reputation. I buy the frozen meat from my local grocery store. Stuffing, not dressing, is prepared in two varities. Plain and simple for the person who enjoys it that way and replete with veggies and fruit for those who savor more flavor. Spices clog my cabinet and lots of bottles are opened as I assemble the holiday meal. I'm quite fond of fresh sage, thyme and rosemary. Their fragrances swirl around the kitchen as cooking proceeds. Underneath the roasting turkey breast, I layer citrus-- slices of grapefruit and lemons from our trees, oranges from the store. As an homage to my mother, no turkey joins the table without a cloak of deep red paprika. Why this spice, one might ask? Did my Grandmother Carter start the tradition? It seems a curious choice for turkey but I'll not be the one abandoning this custom.

My table boasts a centerpiece of dried fruit and vegetables, somewhat artfully arranged in a deep basket. Just in front of this festive assortment, four ceramic figurines are placed. Two Pilgrims, two Native Americans, ready for a feast.




Cranberry sauce bubbles on the stove courtesy of a Southern Living recipe. Now a staple in our household, the green bean salad evokes compliments whenever it's served. No biscuits burrow beneath a cotton napkin-lined basket. I settle for mini-challah rolls from the bakery.

Candles flicker but provide little light as diners struggle slightly to fill their plates. Comforting musical notes seem to float around the room, adding a measure of tranquility to the table. A pickle dish, once owned by Granny Ruth, brims with crimson cranberry sauce.



In a few days, our trestle table will be dressed for company. New napkin rings promise a bit of whimsey. We're anticipating that six family members will eat Thanksgiving dinner together. Great-nieces Drew and Brooke are part of a recent tradition. They know nothing of those farmhouse repasts but maybe, just maybe, someday they'll be sharing memories of holiday meals on Sunset Way.





UPDATE: As of December 7, 2010, the family table has been miraculously located. It is well and living with a second cousin and his family. There is quite a story about this discovery, but most importantly, it remains a treasured artifact to three generations beyond my own. The table is pictured below:




An unexpected holiday blessing.