I've been busy the last few days planning, shopping, and obsessing over Thanksgiving. What is it about cooking a bird that's approximately the size of a human torso that evokes anxiety?
When I feel my anxiety rising, I just figure I'm channelling my Memaw. She was a ball of nerves in the kitchen, but she was also the best cook in the world.
She attempted to combat the nerves with bottomless champagne flutes and Virginia slims cigarettes, but regardless, there was always a moment when the sh*t hit the fan.
It was the height of emotion, when everything was almost done, yet needed its final touches all at the same time. The moment that separates culinary perfection from an over-cooked, dry flop of a meal.
The moment she banished everyone from the kitchen and scolded anyone who was irritating her. She was the commander and chief of that kitchen, no qualms about it. This would often result in tears from unsuspecting plus-ones, but you couldn't blame her. She was creating a meal that was impossibly delicious. And in those final moments, she always won the battle. Always.
Then we all sat around the table and basked in the glow of candlelight, and of her.
The last Thanksgiving I had with Memaw was in 1999. I was 8 months pregnant with Abraham. I miss her so, so much. This Thanksgiving meets me with this familiar dread of missing her and old traditions. Reminding myself to release certain expectations and embrace what I have. I'm proud of whatever parts of her I can channel, even if it is just shoddy nerves, I'll take what I can get because she is absolutely my hero.
Tomorrow, I'll raise my glass to her and whisper my gratitude for all those perfect Thanksgivings in her kitchen.
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