It's hard to believe that it is Thanksgiving. I absolutely love Turkey Day...the parades, the cooking, the feast, the Christmas kick-off. This year Oliver is running around and chasing everyone he can while making growling noises. It was just a short year ago that he slept through his first Thanksgiving. Graham has been busy cooking...he's especially into perfecting the dressing this year...more bread he told me. He has his own apron (thanks to a sweet friend) that has given him that extra edge in the kitchen lately. Mr. Jones is busy tinkering with something with the TV...apparently when we watch the parade tomorrow, it's really going to look and sound amazing (at least that's what we all better tell him or he'll do something else to it). I also have to give a special mention that my hubby smoked the turkey again this year. He makes a mean smoked turkey (and that's what we all better tell him so he gets that "tur-duck-en" idea out of his mind). I've been busy cooking all the non-smoked, non-turkey sides...or as Graham says, I'm in the cooking business as his helper.
It was two months ago that Momma passed away and I've been weaving around the idea of Thanksgiving ever since. I've stayed so busy and tried everything to dodge what is one of my favorite rituals each year. Well today I could no longer pretend it wasn't happening, and I opened up my recipe box. I flipped to the dessert section and ran my fingers along the only pale blue index cards out of the off-white rectangular bunch. I selected two cards, my mother's pumpkin paradise pie and pecan pie. And there was her handwriting. The shaky curves, the underlined emphasis on certain parts where she wanted me to pay close attention, and even the hearts that ended her exclamation points (yes, she used exclamation points in her recipes). What was not so obvious on those cards, but yet clearly there, is the fact that I will never again make these pies with her. Never again share them with her. Never again have her laugh at the time I put the pecan filling into the mixer and ended up with one runny pecan pie that year. And the lonely feeling that I had so dreaded surrounded me.
And almost instantly, the boys rush into the kitchen and Graham wants to help me with the pies. There is no time for sadness when you're teaching your little guy the art of pie. Through tear-drenched eyes, we mix and beat and roll. And we ended up with some pretty good-lookin' pies if I do say so myself. As empty as I feel, having her recipes fill the table tomorrow helps me. In fact, all of the people I love who won't be at my table still will be in some fashion...Teresa's corn casserole, Marie's mandarin orange salad, Dawn's sweet potatoes, Nannie's dressing, Brad's peppers...and Momma's pies. I'm thankful for the pieces of all of them that I will forever have with me. Happy Thanksgiving from the Jones family.
