With enthusiasm she announced that she would be cooking us a Thanksgiving dinner.
My jaw probably dropped.
Normally something like this probably wouldn't be anything to even bat an eye at. Thanksgiving coordinating with a Thanksgiving dinner? It almost seems to go hand in hand right? It wasn't a ground breaking idea or anything.
But you have to understand the reason why I had to pick my jaw up off the floor after she told me this was because my mom never really made a Thanksgiving dinner for us. Not that there wasn't a desire to, but as a single parent with an only child, it probably seemed like a daunting task to make a huge meal for just the two of us.
My jaw probably dropped.
Normally something like this probably wouldn't be anything to even bat an eye at. Thanksgiving coordinating with a Thanksgiving dinner? It almost seems to go hand in hand right? It wasn't a ground breaking idea or anything.
But you have to understand the reason why I had to pick my jaw up off the floor after she told me this was because my mom never really made a Thanksgiving dinner for us. Not that there wasn't a desire to, but as a single parent with an only child, it probably seemed like a daunting task to make a huge meal for just the two of us.
But also--and I realize that this might make me look like a horrible son... But--my mom *cringe* isn't that great of a cook.
I know, I know. Me = Horrible.
But before you light the torches and grab the pitchforks, it might help you to know that she is a self proclaimed bad cook.
FUN BACK STORY
(popcorn time)
I know, I know. Me = Horrible.
But before you light the torches and grab the pitchforks, it might help you to know that she is a self proclaimed bad cook.
FUN BACK STORY
(popcorn time)
When my mom was a little girl, living in a farm house in Taylor Ridge, IL, the first meal that she ever made for her family were grilled cheese sandwiches. A) Who doesn't like a good grilled cheese? and B) When you think about it, grilled cheeses are perfect for a first time cook. She wasn't alone in her journey though. My grandma was there to oversee everything as my mom carefully made the sandwiches for my grandpa and her two sisters, who were all waiting in the dinning room.
When she finished grilling them all on the stove, she carefully placed them all on the serving tray. Pride filled her little self as she picked up the tray and watched in horror as they all slid off and onto the kitchen floor.
Time stood still and my mom's heart was in her throat.
Time stood still and my mom's heart was in her throat.
My mom looked up at my grandma with a "what do I do??" look. Without hesitation my grandma simply reached down, picked them up, placed them back on the tray and leaned into my mom and said in a whisper, "They don't need to know about this."
Now, I don't want you to think that everything that my mom makes instantly becomes black and ashen, because it's honestly not like that. My mom's homemade chicken and noodles and chocolate chip cookies are outta this world. And when I was in grade school she would always make a homemade pizza topped with hamburger every Friday night. Yum, right? They were always good and I always looked forward to them.
There are just times when the kitchen might as well be a chemistry lab.
There are just times when the kitchen might as well be a chemistry lab.
There is part of me that will always remember how the house smelled when she burnt the mashed potatoes. It was a smell that just seemed to linger for days. < < shiver > > And I'll never forget when I finally brought up the courage to tell her that her fried chicken always gave me a stomach ache. You have no idea how it pained me to go to her and tell her. But after years of cramping indigestion I just couldn't let it go on anymore. She took the news well. She just looked at me and simply said that she was sorry and that, had she known, she wouldn't have made it. But promised she wouldn't make it again.
And she hadn't.
While my stomach has been forever thankful for going up to her, a part of me has always felt guilty about it too.
But in that early November of 1990, she seemed so excited as she told me what she had planned. No, she wouldn't be making a turkey, that would be just too much. But instead she was going to roast two small Cornish hens (which was better for our small family), and she was going to make us some mashed potatoes, corn and dinner rolls. I want to say there was a chocolate pudding pie on the list, but I can't remember exactly.
So the count down to Thanksgiving had begun.
There were only a couple weeks until then and she was growing more and more excited. And, throughout the whole time, I didn't have any doubts or worries.
None.
Really.
SIDE STORY
I was currently in the regional competition play at my school (there will, no doubt, be an entry on this at some point. So I'll get back to this soon. I know... You = Pins-and-Needles) and we had just won regional competition and were busy rehearsing it for state. And the Wednesday before Thanksgiving my good friend and polka-partner, Julie Totten, gave me a lift home that afternoon. I jumped into her little silver car with the reddish/purple interior and she played a James Taylor cassette on her boombox that lay on the floor board of her passenger side (her car stereo wasn't working). I straddled the boombox with my legs and she drove me home.
Now British Woods Apartments, where my mom and I lived, kinda wove in and out a little bit and I didn't want to bother Julie and have her take me all the way to my building. So, as I had done with other friends of mine, I had her drop me off at a parking lot that was parallel with my building. We wished each other well, and said we'd see each other on Monday.
But I ended up getting a call from her early the next morning.
Apparently I had left my back pack in her car and she was calling me to let me know that she dropped it off. But since she didn't know exactly where I lived, she dropped it off at the only place she knew of. The parking lot. But not just out willy-nilly anywhere in the parking lot, because that would look too suspicious even for 1990. So she did the next best thing. Left it near the dumpsters.
Now before you start judging her, keep in mind that this was pre-cell phones. So she had left it there and couldn't let me know until she had gotten to a phone of some sort. So after we talked for a minute, I got up out of bed to retrieve the back pack, and as I walked out in the hall I noticed that my mom was already hard at work in the kitchen.
When I got back in with my back pack my mom said with a big smile on her face that the hen's were in the oven! And promised to announce when they were expected to be done. She couldn't wait. She was so excited. Going back into the kitchen she wielded the pots and pans like a professional circus performer and began to work on the sides.
During this time I may have started to watch a movie. And I say this without exaggeration, started what may have turned out to be a second.
By the time I started to watch the third my mom poked her head into the living room. She looked confused. "I'm not sure why," she said, "but it doesn't look like they're getting done." she scrunched her face, and went back into the kitchen. About forty minutes later she came back apologizing, "I don't know what's going on. I don't think that they should be taking this long. Should they?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know, Kath. I've never made them before."
Forcing a smile she headed back into the kitchen. I heard the oven door open again and heard her say, "They shouldn't take too much longer... I don't think."
During this time we started to set up the table. The mashed potatoes, the corn, the rolls and maybe the mysterious (if really present) chocolate pie.
She checked in on the hens again. And again.
About an hour later she looked defeated.
"How does peanut butter and jelly sound?"
"It sounds great, Kath."
I know that it wasn't the Thanksgiving dinner that my mom had imagined for us that day. And as I've grown older I think that her persistence and excitement about it all was because she was seeing it as, what might have been, the last Thanksgiving we would spend together. It was an end of an era. And she wanted something nice to remember it by. A perfect Thanksgiving. And I can only imagine what her disappointment was like on that Thursday.
As we sat down and looked at our plates--the PBandJ surrounded by the traditional Thanksgiving sides staring up at us--we started to laugh. We laughed though the dinner and poked fun at it all. The whole time as the Cornish hens were still stewing in the oven.
They never did get done.
Sometimes life might not go as you had hoped or planned. Which can be disappointing or heart breaking. But in the effort to find a solution, no matter how simple the solution might seem, the end can make some of the best memories. And those memories can often overshadow what would have been perceived as being perfect at the time.
My mom might not be the world's best cook. But if it were any better, we would have never had a fun memory to share with each other every year.
While my stomach has been forever thankful for going up to her, a part of me has always felt guilty about it too.
But in that early November of 1990, she seemed so excited as she told me what she had planned. No, she wouldn't be making a turkey, that would be just too much. But instead she was going to roast two small Cornish hens (which was better for our small family), and she was going to make us some mashed potatoes, corn and dinner rolls. I want to say there was a chocolate pudding pie on the list, but I can't remember exactly.
So the count down to Thanksgiving had begun.
There were only a couple weeks until then and she was growing more and more excited. And, throughout the whole time, I didn't have any doubts or worries.
None.
Really.
SIDE STORY
I was currently in the regional competition play at my school (there will, no doubt, be an entry on this at some point. So I'll get back to this soon. I know... You = Pins-and-Needles) and we had just won regional competition and were busy rehearsing it for state. And the Wednesday before Thanksgiving my good friend and polka-partner, Julie Totten, gave me a lift home that afternoon. I jumped into her little silver car with the reddish/purple interior and she played a James Taylor cassette on her boombox that lay on the floor board of her passenger side (her car stereo wasn't working). I straddled the boombox with my legs and she drove me home.
Now British Woods Apartments, where my mom and I lived, kinda wove in and out a little bit and I didn't want to bother Julie and have her take me all the way to my building. So, as I had done with other friends of mine, I had her drop me off at a parking lot that was parallel with my building. We wished each other well, and said we'd see each other on Monday.
But I ended up getting a call from her early the next morning.
Apparently I had left my back pack in her car and she was calling me to let me know that she dropped it off. But since she didn't know exactly where I lived, she dropped it off at the only place she knew of. The parking lot. But not just out willy-nilly anywhere in the parking lot, because that would look too suspicious even for 1990. So she did the next best thing. Left it near the dumpsters.
Now before you start judging her, keep in mind that this was pre-cell phones. So she had left it there and couldn't let me know until she had gotten to a phone of some sort. So after we talked for a minute, I got up out of bed to retrieve the back pack, and as I walked out in the hall I noticed that my mom was already hard at work in the kitchen.
When I got back in with my back pack my mom said with a big smile on her face that the hen's were in the oven! And promised to announce when they were expected to be done. She couldn't wait. She was so excited. Going back into the kitchen she wielded the pots and pans like a professional circus performer and began to work on the sides.
During this time I may have started to watch a movie. And I say this without exaggeration, started what may have turned out to be a second.
By the time I started to watch the third my mom poked her head into the living room. She looked confused. "I'm not sure why," she said, "but it doesn't look like they're getting done." she scrunched her face, and went back into the kitchen. About forty minutes later she came back apologizing, "I don't know what's going on. I don't think that they should be taking this long. Should they?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know, Kath. I've never made them before."
Forcing a smile she headed back into the kitchen. I heard the oven door open again and heard her say, "They shouldn't take too much longer... I don't think."
During this time we started to set up the table. The mashed potatoes, the corn, the rolls and maybe the mysterious (if really present) chocolate pie.
She checked in on the hens again. And again.
About an hour later she looked defeated.
"How does peanut butter and jelly sound?"
"It sounds great, Kath."
I know that it wasn't the Thanksgiving dinner that my mom had imagined for us that day. And as I've grown older I think that her persistence and excitement about it all was because she was seeing it as, what might have been, the last Thanksgiving we would spend together. It was an end of an era. And she wanted something nice to remember it by. A perfect Thanksgiving. And I can only imagine what her disappointment was like on that Thursday.
As we sat down and looked at our plates--the PBandJ surrounded by the traditional Thanksgiving sides staring up at us--we started to laugh. We laughed though the dinner and poked fun at it all. The whole time as the Cornish hens were still stewing in the oven.
They never did get done.
Sometimes life might not go as you had hoped or planned. Which can be disappointing or heart breaking. But in the effort to find a solution, no matter how simple the solution might seem, the end can make some of the best memories. And those memories can often overshadow what would have been perceived as being perfect at the time.
My mom might not be the world's best cook. But if it were any better, we would have never had a fun memory to share with each other every year.
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