My mom and I never spent Thanksgiving together. Not once, at least that I can remember. It was the holiday reserved for my dad's side of the family, and later, my husband's side of the family. That was no problem. Mom and I had Christmas. But often we would cook a turkey dinner together, at a different and sometimes odd time. Because everyone loves a turkey dinner and we loved to cook together. I didn't even know we loved to do that until she wasn't here. But we did. It was an expression of love and time together and she taught me a lot. I wish I'd listened better to her cooking methods, but that's okay and it doesn't really matter because her cooking was imprecise (though, also, perfect) and I've got the gist, though will never have her precise panache.
Today we came home from a truly wonderful Thanksgiving at my sister-in-laws. Probably the best turkey dinner ever! And we were offered leftovers to bring home and treated beautifully. Yet something today compelled me to go find a fresh turkey and try to replicate my mother's stuffing recipe and make some basic sides and pies. I notice that since she's gone, the things I do with her need to be spontaneous and on my own terms. For example, I forbade anyone to make clam dip for Old Home Weekend in August, then made it, last minute, for a potluck in early October. And this afternoon was sponateously dedicated to making turkey dinner. Not for my mom, but with her. And the cooking is a combination of missing her so much but also feeling close to her and therefore comforted. Neil cut the apples for the pie, which she always appreciated. I hope the stuffing tastes like hers. It will be close enough. I realize that grieving is nothing planned. It hits you when you're least prepared. Like when you know you just need to make a turkey dinner and invite some people who you love. I only wish she were here to talk with while we cooked. That was the best part.
PS: My kids, aunts, cousins, my dad, a baby, a toddler, all came and ate and laughed and filled the holes in my heart with love. Thank you.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Cooking a Turkey Dinner with My Mom
My mom and I never spent Thanksgiving together. Not once, at least that I can remember. It was the holiday reserved for my dad's side of the family, and later, my husband's side of the family. That was no problem. Mom and I had Christmas. But often we would cook a turkey dinner together, at a different and sometimes odd time. Because everyone loves a turkey dinner and we loved to cook together. I didn't even know we loved to do that until she wasn't here. But we did. It was an expression of love and time together and she taught me a lot. I wish I'd listened better to her cooking methods, but that's okay and it doesn't really matter because her cooking was imprecise (though, also, perfect) and I've got the gist, though will never have her precise panache.
Today we came home from a truly wonderful Thanksgiving at my sister-in-laws. Probably the best turkey dinner ever! And we were offered leftovers to bring home and treated beautifully. Yet something today compelled me to go find a fresh turkey and try to replicate my mother's stuffing recipe and make some basic sides and pies. I notice that since she's gone, the things I do with her need to be spontaneous and on my own terms. For example, I forbade anyone to make clam dip for Old Home Weekend in August, then made it, last minute, for a potluck in early October. And this afternoon was sponateously dedicated to making turkey dinner. Not for my mom, but with her. And the cooking is a combination of missing her so much but also feeling close to her and therefore comforted. Neil cut the apples for the pie, which she always appreciated. I hope the stuffing tastes like hers. It will be close enough. I realize that grieving is nothing planned. It hits you when you're least prepared. Like when you know you just need to make a turkey dinner and invite some people who you love. I only wish she were here to talk with while we cooked. That was the best part.
PS: My kids, aunts, cousins, my dad, a baby, a toddler, all came and ate and laughed and filled the holes in my heart with love. Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)