PORTVILLE, N.Y. — I don’t remember how I learned to make stuffing. I suppose it was from a few Thanksgivings of carefully following the Betty Crocker Cookbook. My mother-in-law, Pat, was a wonderful cook and she often pointed me to that resource saying, “It’s all in there.”
Sometimes, I also turned to Fanny Farmer, one my Grandma Amy Brown gave me. Both were wedding shower gifts, Betty’s from my husband’s Aunt Maggie. These were always staples in my kitchen; even when I cut out magazine recipes or botched a formula for modern cuisine, the original two never failed me.
I was thinking about kitchen traditions and old standbys while again preparing stuffing. I no longer need a recipe and haven’t for a long time. Pumpkin pie with real whipping cream and this dish could be the whole meal and I’d be happy.
As onions and celery soften in hot butter and seasonings in the frying pan, I pour broth over the cubed bread — some croutons from the store with enough torn, soft bread to please me. My memory drifts back to earlier times, holidays shared with others.
I entered a text to my siblings.
“Hey, remember childhood Thanksgivings? First meal at Grandma Freer’s house? Second at Grandma Gray’s? So stuffed!”
My sister’s response. “Nope.” She wonders how I remember things so far back. Our brothers are unlikely to recall, they were so young then, a time when our family was still intact. The thought saddens me that at times, I might be the sole keeper of most memories from that era.
I suppose it’s how some people feel when a loved one is robbed of precious memories. Especially if it is a couple or a parent, leaving a spouse or children as witnesses to events of the past, wishing they could still share the experience. “Remember when?” after all, is a time-tested pastime of families who gather.
Sometimes the memories don’t match. It can be funny — or annoying — to discover you don’t remember events the same way someone else does. I’ve seen it in family squabbles over written memoirs. (As one instructional text puts it, the writer should tell the person who disagrees with them, “Go write your own memoir!”) Ask multiple witnesses of a crime scene what they saw and details are often far apart. Even reporters view a scene from individual perspectives. We all see life through filters of our experiential lenses and opinions. We each operate from innate viewpoints. I’ve always liked an old quote that goes, “Memory is a crazy woman who hoards colored rags and throws away food” (Austin O’Malley). The things we tend to remember aren’t always the most important components of life, but the images are important to us.
Preparing stuffing, my thoughts aren’t really about food. They’re about life shared with others, especially family. I miss them. I picture stuffing with giblets in them and in the gravy (surely not mine) and remember a day at Grandma Gray’s table in a tiny house. Toward my teen years, the house was larger and it was our second stop of every holiday. Food was still plentiful late in the day and I’ll never forget big, crusty loaves of homemade bread — white, braided and salt-rising. We’d wolf down slabs with gobs of butter. She never used a recipe, so I can’t duplicate her loaves but even if I could, it wouldn’t be the same.
It’s not the food. It’s the L-O-V-E added in I’m really remembering:
How Grandpa Llewellyn Freer once took Grandma Lula in his arms, much to her surprise and ours, and danced her around the kitchen like they were teenagers, pulling her away from the stove for just a moment.
How all my mother’s siblings and their families gathered at Grandma Gertrude and Grandpa Cyril Gray’s on holidays. We could drop in at any hour, be welcomed and well-fed.
How my mother-in-law patiently showed me how she made a dish, but the greatest lessons came from the interplay in a small kitchen around a full-sized table, plentifully supplied by Pat.
How my husband Gordy and daughter Michele feigned delight at the “best turkey ever” a November early in our time together when we stayed on campus versus a New York journey. I had roasted the turkey so long, it fell apart as we lifted it from the pan.
They say memory can be a blessing or a curse. I suppose if they’re bad or with negative impact, such as traumas, remembering can hurt. I’ve had bad experiences, even traumatic episodes. Looking back, I can now mostly see past negativity. I see growth, lessons carried on the winds of God’s teachings. I see mercy, His Grace!
Memories can be sweet, bittersweet at times, carrying some poignant moment we know will never come again. On recollection, something hits you in the solar plexus, a wistfulness, a gratitude and an awareness of being in the Presence of One who loves us. God wants us to live life in all its fullness.
Sometimes that means letting tears flow with the remembrance — and thanksgiving.
(Contact contributor Deb Wuethrich at deborahmarcein@gmail.com)
