That cookbook had been my very first,
obtained in my sophomore year of college, when four of us had abandoned the
dorm for more sophisticated living in a two bedroom townhouse. The cookbook was a necessary item if we
intended on not visiting fast food restaurants for every meal.
The four of us sat on Merilee’s
bed, reading the choices offered to us through a book club, with the incentive
to join being given two books for the purchase of one. Now, “free” is the most sacred word in a
college student’s vocabulary. Thus, we
poured over the selections and opted for the two we figured we could use the
most as life quickly propelled us out into adulthood. We selected Betty Crocker’s Best Recipes
and, naturally, The Joy of Sex.
I must admit, we did “Joy”
proud. We maneuvered our young, lithe
bodies into those contortion-like positions - positions which we memorized
as thoroughly as we should have our homework. Our boyfriends were wonderfully accommodating
and ready and able to help us achieve those “Joy” goals we set out to
meet. Many a class went unattended as we
home schooled ourselves on another form of art that went beyond any known
syllabus offered on campus. Life was
good, life was sweet, life was Joy-FULL!
Those four years went by quickly, and somewhere between graduation,
relationship separations, and moving on to higher expectations, “Joy” was lost
in the shuffle. Oddly enough, “Betty”
remained in my safekeeping. Maybe it’s a
testament of life; that no matter how old we get, we still have to eat. However, with sex...well, you get the point.
Now, at the age of 57, with the
life and times of FSU just a long ago chapter, I riffled through Betty
Crocker’s Best Recipes for the winning combination of dishes to be served at
this year’s Thanksgiving. Though the
book itself is well worn, it was the loosely stuffed recipes in the back of the
book – those uncategorized, un-alphabetized recipes, torn and faded from years
of use and handling abuse that were really the golden ones I was after; because
those were the ones given to me from various family members over decades. They were handwritten by my loved ones who are
no longer with me, except through a multitude of memories, photographs...and
recipes.
I pulled several of them out;
smiling over them as if they were winning lottery tickets. Without so much as lighting a burner on the
stove, I could smell my grandmother’s corn pudding, Mama’s squash casserole,
and Auntie’s sweet potatoes. My
grandmother’s writing for the corn pudding had quite a few abbreviations, which
reminded me that she’d been a secretary eighty years ago, and had known short
hand. I thought of the rarity of that
skill in this day of tablets and smart phones.
She had been my grandfather’s secretary before becoming his wife, which
told me her shorthand must have been beyond belief! Auntie’s instructions for
the sweet potato casserole were written in long, slanted cursive writing, like
she’d had the time to take her time writing it.
She had; she was childless and lived on my great-uncle’s income. Then I came upon Mama’s recipe for the squash
casserole. I heard myself let out a
little sigh.
Mama passed ten years ago, and the
sting of it remains. I guess it always
does when you lose a parent, and, in my case, parents, who were as wonderful as
mine were. Though the forcefulness of
the pain eases over time, it never stops entirely. There are certain moments
when it can knock the wind out of you again, especially when a memory of them
catches you off guard, such as the case with the squash casserole.
Seeing her writing – quick, succinct,
to the point – EXACTLY like she was, brought that tiny stinging in the
heart. So, I poured a lukewarm cup of
coffee, sat down at my dining room table, and looked out at my relatively new
view of the Blue Ridge Mountains .
My husband and I moved here shortly
after Mama’s death, leaving old friends behind, and, as we have for the last decade,
we’ll share this Thanksgiving with relatively new ones. Unlike our old friends, these new ones don’t yet know our quirks but
love us anyway. And
they haven’t gathered much dirt on us, like those longtime friends who have so
much of it, they could bury us alive with it, but who guard our secrets as if
they were their own. This year’s Thanksgiving friends
are the getting-to-know-you kind. The remind-me-how-many-siblings-you-have,
and where-you-were-born kind. Though old friends and family are incomparably
cherished, new friends who wander into your mid and later life years are deeply
appreciated little treasures. They come
along when the opportunities for making close friends isn’t as easy as it was in
school or when working in a corporate world filled with friendship
possibilities in every cubicle. So,
these new friends, helping us to make new memories, are a welcomed blessing.
When we sit at the candle-lit
Thanksgiving table and begin passing around the different side dishes, I will once
again think of Grandma, Auntie, and Mama.
My new and old worlds will join forces at the table. I will almost hear Auntie’s long and piously
delivered blessing, followed by a bawdy joke being whispered from my beautiful grandmother’s
mouth. And I will almost be able to hear, feel and see Mama; taking charge, being in charge, and lovingly so, by making
sure that everyone has what and all they need at the table. They will all be there; in the memories, in
the stories told about them, and in the food that they made dozens of times for
dozens of holidays. And I will send
gratitude and love to them all. All things considered, I
am a very abundantly blessed and thankful legacy.
