by Kristin Schell
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“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”
~ A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
“What was your favorite Thanksgiving, Mommy?” one of the girls asks. We’re busy making cornbread for our traditional cornbread dressing. Cornmeal and flour swirl around the kitchen like a West Texas dust storm. Chopped pecans crunch beneath my bare feet. I ignore the mess.
“Hmmm…I have so many good memories I can hardly choose,” I reply stirring the batter fifty times— no more, no less my grandfather’s recipe instructs. The mixture sizzles when I pour it into the hot cast iron skillet.
I sift through four and a half decades of Thanksgivings, my memory churning. I smile thinking about the year my mother and I cooked ourselves silly for a week, using fancy recipes dubbed nouveau traditional from Bon Appetit. The elaborate meal made a gorgeous spread, but was no substitute for our family’s favorite dishes.
I recall the bittersweet Thanksgiving I flew alone to Kansas to visit my grandparents. My grandmother was sick in the hospital and I had a hunch it might be her last. My grandfather and I celebrated Thanksgiving in the quiet hospital cafeteria with a modest serving of turkey, mashed potatoes, and peas. My grandmother recovered, but that Thanksgiving was my grandfather’s last.
“One of my favorite memories might be the Thanksgiving I didn’t eat anything.”
“Oh mommy, that’s awful! Why?” I lean against the kitchen counter where she’s sitting and notice her feet still dangle high above the hardwood floor. I tell her a story I haven’t thought of in ages . . .
When the doctor told my mother recovery from a tonsillectomy required a week to ten days, she took one look at our overscheduled calendar and landed on the week of Thanksgiving for the surgery. I’d have plenty of time to recover without missing school.
The feast day arrived with me propped up in bed, sipping cold drinks, wincing with every swallow.
My mother tiptoed into my dark room and whispered, “We’ll be right across the street, honey. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.”
While I convalesced, my family was celebrating Thanksgiving with neighbors. I dozed off trying not to think about the fun I was missing.
A knock on my bedroom door woke me out of a light slumber. “Honey, do you think you can walk into the kitchen for just a few minutes?” My mother was already by my side helping me get out of bed. I dragged my groggy body into the kitchen.
“We couldn’t let you miss Thanksgiving, Kristin!” my neighbor announced. Our two families stood like a band of angels gathered around our kitchen table. In the center was a special feast, just for me—a turkey mold of cherry Jell-O.
Overjoyed by the surprise, I tasted a few delicious bites of my Jell-O turkey. I smiled with gratitude; my heart was full.
My daughter lets the story sink in and then asks, “You didn’t have any real turkey for Thanksgiving?”
“Not a bite,” I assure her. “A couple days later I was better and enjoyed Mia’s famous turkey pate.”
She nods her head. “But, you did have a feast, it was just different.”
“Yes, that Thanksgiving looked a lot different than I expected, but there are always reasons to be grateful. Sometimes you just have to look a little harder than others.”
The timer chimes and I pull the golden cornbread from the oven.
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