Tag: meal

The first Christmas after I graduated from college, living in my own house, gainfully employed and married to my first husband, also gainfully employed, I thought it was time to be a grown up and have people over to my house for a change. Judging from my pictures and Mother’s from that day, I’m not sure exactly what hostessing meant to me, beyond providing a table (and my extra chairs being lawn chairs).

Looking at the table, I may have opened the cranberry sauce and put it in that dish, which is mine, and the china, crystal, and tumblers are mine, but there’s no way I ever baked that turkey, and those serving dishes are not mine, so I’m thinking whatever vegetables were in them were brought by my mother. That’s Mother, Daddy, me, Terri, Daniel, and First Husband sitting around the table. David’s taking the photo. I see Daddy already put some dressing on his plate before we could get the photos taken. My sister is looking down on us from her graduation picture behind Terri. I recognize some of the books on the shelf: Summer of ’42, Jaws, Valley of the Dolls, The Thorn Birds. That must have been my popular fiction shelf. The literary stuff is elsewhere. I also spy Mr. Santa Claus–that was the year he and Mrs. Claus were given to me by Lynne’s sister.

I think I made the mashed potatoes–which Daniel has already spooned onto his plate. Like grandfather, like grandson. But once again, judging by the serving dishes, Mother made macaroni and cheese, ambrosia, gravy, and the dressing. Yep, I really labored over preparing that meal, didn’t I?

My first Christmas tree as a true grown-up. Up on a table so Hamlet and Brutus wouldn’t pull off any ornaments. I still put those same candy canes on my trees now. Where are the presents? No idea. Probably on top of the piano to keep the dogs out. It does seem as if I might have made a little more effort to cover up that tree stand, doesn’t it? I LOVE that little TV in the corner. Even if I’m not actually thirty-five, at least you can see that we already had TV when I was twenty-two. AND IT WAS COLOR, so hush. Still have that painting that’s on the wall. Still have that basket that’s under the table. It used to have magazines in it. Now it’s the wastebasket in the guest room.

By comparison, in a house the next town over, here’s Lynne’s Christmas tree. With actual presents under the tree, the way it should be.

Here are pictures from my ‘tween years forward of many Thanksgivings that include lots of family and friends. These pictures don’t really need words to show why every year teaches me again how much I have to be grateful for. This is what Thanksgiving means to me: being together for a few hours with people we care for, reaching out to those who need to be included, sharing what is abundant in our lives–whether that is food, time, or love–with our neighbors.

I hope all of you find good and safe ways to celebrate the Thanksgiving holidays, and that we can all offer our best to one another, in stores and airports, at work and at play, on roads, in front of TVs, at tables, and online.

Taking a break: I’ll be back for sure by time to post Button Sunday!

Today I had a hankering for a deviled egg.

I have a plastic container to keep or transport deviled eggs, but as anyone knows, a Southern belle has at least one and preferably several deviled egg plates, and this is mine. I love the rooster and the sunflower, but here is its quirk: there are slots for nine eggs. I don’t know how y’all make deviled eggs, but I cut my boiled eggs in half, scoop out the yolk, mix it with stuff, and fill the egg hollows with that stuff. At the risk of sounding mathy, you can’t add egg halves and come up with nine. I’ve decided this means the person who prepares the deviled eggs must, therefore, eat the extra one. This also works if you need a poison tester, because I connect deviled eggs to stuff like picnics and families, and you know both of those can be treacherous.

The process of deviling the eggs led me to think about two kinds of picnics: planned and spontaneous. My earliest impressions of picnics are the ones we took while we traveled during my childhood. Interstates were rare–we were more likely to take state highways and old backroads to get anywhere. We were also not yet a fast food nation. So trips meant either stopping at wonderful diners and cafes in small towns or–because we didn’t really have the budget for eating out that way–my mother packed sandwiches, fruit, chips, and drinks. When the back seat started sounding cranky, my parents knew it was time to find a shady roadside picnic area, pull over, and stuff food in us. The place might have been left to chance, but not the fixings, because everybody had to have the right things to eat (this one doesn’t like mustard, that one won’t eat Fritos, the other one hasn’t tasted much beyond peanut butter in two years, etc.).

Somewhat irrelevant aside: One time I was watching an episode of Mad Men (set in the early Sixties, if you don’t know), and the Draper family was having a picnic in an idyllic spot–green grass, shade trees, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kids being kids. Don finished his beer and rocked my world by tossing the can as far as he could throw it. Then when it was time to go, Betty told the kids to get their things, stood up, shook the blanket free of plates, cups, napkins, and food remnants, and they all got in the car and drove off, leaving a pile of debris behind. I GASPED. I would just like to say that my family did not behave in a way that would make the Keep America Beautiful Indian shed a tear. We properly disposed of our trash before moving on.

I think anytime children are involved, a picnic requires planning, and I used to be a champion planner myself, so I understand the compulsion. However, as I aged, I began to see how overplanning takes all the joy out of an event–both for the planner and everyone else. Because there will always be things you can’t prepare for, and I’m not talking about only nuisances like ants, mosquitoes, drunks, and rain. The world will not end if a picnic does not go exactly as planned–well, unless it’s taken over by zombies, but that hasn’t happened to me yet, so I disregard it. Consequently, I’m more in favor of the spontaneous picnic.

One such occasion began on a spring night when Lynne and I had a discussion about fried chicken. She said Craig didn’t really like fried chicken, and I said it was probably because he’d never had mine. (Y’all know Lynne is a fantastic cook, right, and taught me a lot of what I know? But never let it be said an Aries will miss an opportunity to be a little cocky.) So we decided to have a cook-off. We each separately spent a late night frying chicken and packed some other random foods. Early the next morning, we loaded Craig’s van, then the two of them, Tom, and I rode toward the Hill Country looking for the perfect picnic spot.

This is Texas, and they really mean it when they say if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. A couple of hours later we were unloading the van in a bucolic setting with wildflowers and singing birds. And without warning, the temperature dropped about thirty degrees. Fortunately, Craig had some work coveralls in his van, so Lynne and I put those on, and we managed to stuff our food past blue lips with shivering hands. Crazily, that memory is one of my favorite picnics ever. And I can’t say it’s because Craig liked my chicken best–he did!–but it turned out that Tom and I liked Lynne’s best, so it all evened out. But we laughed ourselves stupid, rode home in the cozy van, and probably played cards all night with some good cussin’ and cold chicken.

Recently, Lynne asked me if Jess was with us on that picnic, and I remembered that he wasn’t. I’m not sure where he was–he might have been on spring break in Alabama with his great-aunts–but I knew for sure if he’d been with us, he’d have had the sense to get out of the cold.