I used to marvel at Granny’s Thanksgiving
Golden brown on the outside and moist and delicious inside.
I had no idea how she did it, and she wasn’t sharing her secrets with anyone.
Her turkey was so decadent one could eat it free of gravy and without any of the accompanying sides. It was good enough to stand alone.
When I finally decided to try my hand at cooking the bird, I did a decent job.
Even the old gal said so herself, although she had thrown in her commentary about what she would do differently.
“Did you thaw your bird out long enough, Sug?” she asked, her tone telling me she thought I had not. “And next time, make sure you cook it longer on low, instead of trying to rush it.”
My husband only had Granny’s turkey a couple of times before she quit making it; I don’t think my child ever had the honor of blessing his taste buds with it. A deprived childhood, in my opinion.
My child only had memories of disgusting Thanksgivings.
The year Granny put the turkey in the pressure cooker, yielding a mess that the evil beagle refused to eat, and she ate, well, I am sure you know what beagles eat.
The following year, Mama ordered something equally uneatable.
The next year, I tried ordering a complete dinner that was supposed to be already cooked and just needed it reheating.
Cracker Barrell made the dinner the following Thanksgiving.
While tasty, it felt weird not to have a carcass to shove back into the fridge when we got done.
Thanksgiving, which is usually such a joyous holiday marked by eating and football, had become a day where we dreaded eating.
“I don’t really like turkey,” Lamar confessed when I was trying to figure out what to make this year.
If I was honest, I didn’t either. If it wasn’t Granny’s, it wasn’t really fit to eat.
“As far as I am concerned, we can just have the sides,” he continued.
“What kind of sides are we talking about?” Cole wanted to know.
“Well, you have to have potatoes,” Lamar began.
“Two kinds of potatoes,” I said. “It is Thanksgiving. It is completely acceptable to have two kinds – some kind of sweet potato and mashed.”
“Mac and cheese?” I suggested. Both nodded.
“Peas?” Cole added.
Of course, peas. You can’t have mashed potatoes and not have peas.
“Some kind of roll,” Lamar offered.
I nodded, wondering which would be best: biscuit or roll.
“What about dessert?” I asked.
“Pie,” Lamar said.
“What kind?” I asked.
“Apple,” Lamar said.
“I don’t like apple.”
“I do. Cole does,too.”
“Cole likes any pie,” I said.
“What kind do you like?”
“Pecan, lemon meringue, or key lime.”
“I can make a cake,” I agreed.
“Do we need anything else?” Cole asked.
“Could you make salmon?” he asked.
I could. Salmon croquettes sounded better than turkey and wouldn’t take as long.
“So, our menu is a bunch of sides, salmon croquettes, and cake?”
They both nodded.
“Neither of you will miss turkey?”
Both shook their heads.
“Alright. That’s what we’re doing.”
A turkey-less Thanksgiving is what it will be. And with it, the beginning of an untraditional tradition.