When I was a child our Thanksgiving feast was more often chicken than turkey. So it was rather special the year I was twelve and dad announced that he’d ordered a turkey that year.
A few days later a good friend stopped in and offered mother free transportation if she wanted to visit her brother three states away for the holiday. An exchange of phone calls, a written menu, and a hasty lesson in making the stuffing later she left on a fine November morning.
Thanksgiving morning included the usual farm chores for dad and my seventeen year-old brother. I busied myself with putting the stuffing together, filled the bird (don’t forget the neck cavity), and getting it all secure in the oven before we left for church services.
It was the last minute things that got me. Oh, I had help. My brother was always good about setting the table, putting on the side dishes and that sort of thing. And the bird looked good, smelled better, and filled me with pride. Until…
gravy….dad never claimed to be much of a cook, but…
Thanks that Thanksgiving that he stepped in and gave me the cooking lesson I needed. Was it lumpy? I can’t remember. I do recall that we had a fine feast and the lessons learned that holiday have served me well through the years.
Thanks for…family, lessons, and daily bread.