Thanksgiving in a nutshell...
Sunday, November 30th, 2008 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
auntbijouSalty. Very, very salty.
*laughs*
Well, you see, the Flaky Sister has been doing Thanksgiving for a number of years now, ever since Mom pretty much retired from it. And she retired from it after THO and I moved away from Houston. See, we only lived a few blocks away, so we were available to come over in the days before to help with cleaning, baking, cooking, etc. Not to mention she could use my kitchen to supplement her own. But when we moved, well... it took only one Thanksgiving for her to realize she couldn't do it all. So she passed the torch. First the Blonde Sister tried her hand at it, then the Flaky Sister... they passed it back and forth (no one ever asked me if I wanted to take it, and at the time, I knew better than to ask) until the Blonde Sister realized she was more of a Christmas person, and the Flaky Sister decided she would do Thanksgiving.
It took Thanksgiving this year for us to remember why we have always been rather relieved whenever the weather kept us from traveling to Houston. My oldest sister is... not really a very good cook.
*sigh*
I love her to pieces, but the woman thinks salt is the answer to every cooking problem in the planet. Too bitter? Add more salt. Too spicy? SALT! Funny taste on the back of your tongue with a metallic tang that might be from aluminum foil touching the eggs? ADD MORE SALT!!!
OH, and butter. And garlic, lots and lots of garlic. Apparently, there is no dish that can't be improved with salt, butter, and garlic.
Oy, my stomach!
This year, she made a small turkey roast instead of the giant mutant DRY turkey most people make and opted for a giant "country" ham. Meaning a ham that was cured the old fashioned way with SALT, by a FARMER!! It was apparently covered with mold and salt when she got it (salt cured, remember?) and it had to be soaked before she could cook it. She either forgot or didn't know that it needed to be boiled first to kind of cut the salt a bit, though Mom said she told her this repeatedly.
I did not offer to help her in the kitchen like I normally do, because I was busy keeping my oldest niece, D, from falling over into the salad, the fruit tray, other people, the sink... omg, when she tried to stir the snap beans!!! She's on a heavy duty painkiller because of her teeth and her stomach, so... she was pretty... high. Yeah. And, though she's shorter than me, she's much heavier, so you can imagine Auntie hanging onto her for dear life and trying to steer her away from people and dangerously hot things, until she finally said very firmly, "D, will you just sit down, fer gossakes???"
She blinked at me, then slurred, "You know, that's a good idea!" and almost sat down right where she was. I hauled her up and her husband finally appeared to take charge of her and drag her off to a deep chair, until he pried her out twenty minutes later to pour her into bed. The Blonde Sister said it was a rather comical sight, watching me trying to keep her from sinking to the floor. "You're pretty strong, Auntie," she said, nudging me afterwards, "but I bet you're going to feel it in your back tonight!!"
So, when the Flaky Sister got the ham out and called me over to help, well... you know what? It is a BAD sign when you lean over a ham, and your eyes start stinging. I called for the Husbandly One to taste the sliver she cut off, and he chewed thoughtfully, keeping from making a face by a very manful effort though I watched his eyes water, and said, "It's a bit salty, but tender."
Generous man, isn't he?
So, dinner was ready, and for some bizarre reason, my sister asked ME to say grace. I blinked and said, "You're kidding, right?"
She said, "No, I'm not. I'm not waiting for the Brotherly One to get in here and do it. I'm hungry NOW, so say whatever you want for grace, Auntie."
I have mentioned I'm pagan, right?
Now, had I been prepared, I would have had either a really cool Wiccan grace to say, or something religion neutral, but as it was, I had to sort of wing it so I said, "We thank you for this food and remember the hungry, we thank you for roof over our heads, and remember the homeless, we thank you for the sunny day, and remember the storm. Bless this food, the house, and all in it, and keep us all safe and happy."
It was the best I could do on the wing, and everyone seemed happy, though I did hear a few mutters of, "Did she forget to mention the Heavenly Father or Jesus?"
I just said airily, "There are mixed religions in this house, so I just chose something nice and neutral. You don't like it, you can be my guest to say grace next time!" and went to get a plate.
No, I did not get any ham.
Now, I have to mention here that the Flaky Sister rides my ass all the time about my so-called inability to cook. I admit, I do not enjoy cooking, but I can and do cook. It's much different from baking, but I manage fairly well. And there are things I know that my sister has apparently not learned.
Too much chicken broth makes stuffing mushy. And it is better to use turkey stock than chicken broth.
If you are going to use the family recipe for that stuffing, then do not argue with three women who have actually made that stuffing, including the woman who came up with it, and tell them that Mom always put garlic in it. Especially if Mom is standing right there saying, "No, I do not, I never have, it ruins the taste!!"
Paula Dean is a lovely woman, and yes, her accent is somewhat similar to our beloved cousin, Betty Mabry's. Except Betty Mabry was from Northern Mississippi, and Paula Dean is from ... Georgia. Hell, I'm from Texas, and even I know a Mississippi accent is different from a Georgia accent, and I can think of at least three people on my f-list who are going to go all cattywompus on that. Anyhow, my point is, Paula Dean is a lovely woman, and a good cook, I guess, but... you cannot use her recipes in a family with a history of gallbladder issues.
I have no idea what she did to the mashed potatoes, but I'm pretty sure it was a desecration and insult to potatoes everywhere.
I love my sister dearly, but... she should not be allowed to cook for Thanksgiving any more. No. Just... no.
The woman cannot cook.
My mother, the Impossible Son, and I did not eat the ham. THO did, and the Impertinent Daughter had a small piece. Guess who had tummy trouble Thursday night and part of Friday?
Yeah.
Otherwise, it was a relatively pleasant Thanksgiving, and we sat around telling funny stories about my dad. Like the time when he was a teenager growing up in Mississippi, and he and a bunch of his cousins wanted to drive
to a neighboring town to visit a favorite uncle, only... they didn't have enough gas, and between them, they didn't have enough to buy the gas to get them there... and back. So... they pushed the car out to the highway and parked on the side of the road, flagging down passing motorists to ask for enough gas to get to the nearest gas station. In this way, they hoped to get enough gas to get to the neighboring town (the irony here being that one of Dad's uncles owned a gas station). Finally, a farmer stopped and looked at Dad and his pals, and said, "You boys don't have any money to buy gas, do you?"
"No, sir," they said (this was in the 1930's, y'all).
He snorted, then said, "Well, why don't I buy you all some gas, so you can get wherever it is you're going? You can pay me back with some field work, right?"
"Yes, sir!" they said, and got the gas to go visit their uncle.
My dad was a definite goofball when he was a teenager.
When he was a baby, his grandmother would babysit him because his mother was very ill. She was a farm wife, and a very busy one, and there were times when she had to park him in his high chair to do her work. When she had to start lunch for her husband and the farm hands, she'd put him in the high chair, then she'd dab his fingertips with molasses and hand him a white chicken feather to keep him busy. There's a photo of him with that in one of his old photo albums, this chunky little boy with red cheeks and a serious frown on his face as he studies the feather in his fingers. He said she told him he'd pass it from hand to hand, mystified by why it kept sticking to his fingers and trying to drop it and then getting mystified all over again. I die laughing every time I hear that story, and I tell you true, I have used that trick myself to keep my own kids busy when they were babies!! Except it was honey and a blade of grass!!
Kind of hard to mourn someone when you're snickering and snorting about all the funny stories you know. And there were a lot. The time he was pestering the Blonde Sister when she was about 10, picking on her at the dinner table and just being a stinker, and she finally had enough and launched a spoonful of mashed potatoes at his face. Hit him square in the nose. Fortunately, after one horrified moment on the part of Mom and both of my sisters, he burst out laughing. The time when I was about three or four and he pretended to be sound asleep while I carefully applied the makeup I had swiped from my sisters and my mother, then blinking in a puzzled manner when he sat up, while I rolled on the floor in peals of laughter. The dance at the Blonde Sister's wedding when he did the Bump with the Blonde Sister, the Jitterbug with my mother, and the Hokey Pokey with all the little kids that were still awake. The huge bass he caught and landed, only to have it stolen by a very bold raccoon before he could even get it off the hook and how he had chased it, shouting, "You come back here! You come back here with my fish!!" and everyone thought he had lost his mind because only two other people had seen the raccoon...
I could go on and on. My dad was a jerk sometimes, scary sometimes, but he did hilariously funny things a lot that were mostly unintentional (which made them even funnier). So, it helped to sit there and tell all our funny stories, setting aside the bad memories for now, and enjoying the good. I think it was something Mom needed, something we all needed.
And maybe one day, the Flaky Sister's Incredibly Salty Country Ham will join the massive collection of funny stories we tell at frequent intervals. Heaven knows, we need to laugh at that!!
*laughs*
Well, you see, the Flaky Sister has been doing Thanksgiving for a number of years now, ever since Mom pretty much retired from it. And she retired from it after THO and I moved away from Houston. See, we only lived a few blocks away, so we were available to come over in the days before to help with cleaning, baking, cooking, etc. Not to mention she could use my kitchen to supplement her own. But when we moved, well... it took only one Thanksgiving for her to realize she couldn't do it all. So she passed the torch. First the Blonde Sister tried her hand at it, then the Flaky Sister... they passed it back and forth (no one ever asked me if I wanted to take it, and at the time, I knew better than to ask) until the Blonde Sister realized she was more of a Christmas person, and the Flaky Sister decided she would do Thanksgiving.
It took Thanksgiving this year for us to remember why we have always been rather relieved whenever the weather kept us from traveling to Houston. My oldest sister is... not really a very good cook.
*sigh*
I love her to pieces, but the woman thinks salt is the answer to every cooking problem in the planet. Too bitter? Add more salt. Too spicy? SALT! Funny taste on the back of your tongue with a metallic tang that might be from aluminum foil touching the eggs? ADD MORE SALT!!!
OH, and butter. And garlic, lots and lots of garlic. Apparently, there is no dish that can't be improved with salt, butter, and garlic.
Oy, my stomach!
This year, she made a small turkey roast instead of the giant mutant DRY turkey most people make and opted for a giant "country" ham. Meaning a ham that was cured the old fashioned way with SALT, by a FARMER!! It was apparently covered with mold and salt when she got it (salt cured, remember?) and it had to be soaked before she could cook it. She either forgot or didn't know that it needed to be boiled first to kind of cut the salt a bit, though Mom said she told her this repeatedly.
I did not offer to help her in the kitchen like I normally do, because I was busy keeping my oldest niece, D, from falling over into the salad, the fruit tray, other people, the sink... omg, when she tried to stir the snap beans!!! She's on a heavy duty painkiller because of her teeth and her stomach, so... she was pretty... high. Yeah. And, though she's shorter than me, she's much heavier, so you can imagine Auntie hanging onto her for dear life and trying to steer her away from people and dangerously hot things, until she finally said very firmly, "D, will you just sit down, fer gossakes???"
She blinked at me, then slurred, "You know, that's a good idea!" and almost sat down right where she was. I hauled her up and her husband finally appeared to take charge of her and drag her off to a deep chair, until he pried her out twenty minutes later to pour her into bed. The Blonde Sister said it was a rather comical sight, watching me trying to keep her from sinking to the floor. "You're pretty strong, Auntie," she said, nudging me afterwards, "but I bet you're going to feel it in your back tonight!!"
So, when the Flaky Sister got the ham out and called me over to help, well... you know what? It is a BAD sign when you lean over a ham, and your eyes start stinging. I called for the Husbandly One to taste the sliver she cut off, and he chewed thoughtfully, keeping from making a face by a very manful effort though I watched his eyes water, and said, "It's a bit salty, but tender."
Generous man, isn't he?
So, dinner was ready, and for some bizarre reason, my sister asked ME to say grace. I blinked and said, "You're kidding, right?"
She said, "No, I'm not. I'm not waiting for the Brotherly One to get in here and do it. I'm hungry NOW, so say whatever you want for grace, Auntie."
I have mentioned I'm pagan, right?
Now, had I been prepared, I would have had either a really cool Wiccan grace to say, or something religion neutral, but as it was, I had to sort of wing it so I said, "We thank you for this food and remember the hungry, we thank you for roof over our heads, and remember the homeless, we thank you for the sunny day, and remember the storm. Bless this food, the house, and all in it, and keep us all safe and happy."
It was the best I could do on the wing, and everyone seemed happy, though I did hear a few mutters of, "Did she forget to mention the Heavenly Father or Jesus?"
I just said airily, "There are mixed religions in this house, so I just chose something nice and neutral. You don't like it, you can be my guest to say grace next time!" and went to get a plate.
No, I did not get any ham.
Now, I have to mention here that the Flaky Sister rides my ass all the time about my so-called inability to cook. I admit, I do not enjoy cooking, but I can and do cook. It's much different from baking, but I manage fairly well. And there are things I know that my sister has apparently not learned.
Too much chicken broth makes stuffing mushy. And it is better to use turkey stock than chicken broth.
If you are going to use the family recipe for that stuffing, then do not argue with three women who have actually made that stuffing, including the woman who came up with it, and tell them that Mom always put garlic in it. Especially if Mom is standing right there saying, "No, I do not, I never have, it ruins the taste!!"
Paula Dean is a lovely woman, and yes, her accent is somewhat similar to our beloved cousin, Betty Mabry's. Except Betty Mabry was from Northern Mississippi, and Paula Dean is from ... Georgia. Hell, I'm from Texas, and even I know a Mississippi accent is different from a Georgia accent, and I can think of at least three people on my f-list who are going to go all cattywompus on that. Anyhow, my point is, Paula Dean is a lovely woman, and a good cook, I guess, but... you cannot use her recipes in a family with a history of gallbladder issues.
I have no idea what she did to the mashed potatoes, but I'm pretty sure it was a desecration and insult to potatoes everywhere.
I love my sister dearly, but... she should not be allowed to cook for Thanksgiving any more. No. Just... no.
The woman cannot cook.
My mother, the Impossible Son, and I did not eat the ham. THO did, and the Impertinent Daughter had a small piece. Guess who had tummy trouble Thursday night and part of Friday?
Yeah.
Otherwise, it was a relatively pleasant Thanksgiving, and we sat around telling funny stories about my dad. Like the time when he was a teenager growing up in Mississippi, and he and a bunch of his cousins wanted to drive
to a neighboring town to visit a favorite uncle, only... they didn't have enough gas, and between them, they didn't have enough to buy the gas to get them there... and back. So... they pushed the car out to the highway and parked on the side of the road, flagging down passing motorists to ask for enough gas to get to the nearest gas station. In this way, they hoped to get enough gas to get to the neighboring town (the irony here being that one of Dad's uncles owned a gas station). Finally, a farmer stopped and looked at Dad and his pals, and said, "You boys don't have any money to buy gas, do you?"
"No, sir," they said (this was in the 1930's, y'all).
He snorted, then said, "Well, why don't I buy you all some gas, so you can get wherever it is you're going? You can pay me back with some field work, right?"
"Yes, sir!" they said, and got the gas to go visit their uncle.
My dad was a definite goofball when he was a teenager.
When he was a baby, his grandmother would babysit him because his mother was very ill. She was a farm wife, and a very busy one, and there were times when she had to park him in his high chair to do her work. When she had to start lunch for her husband and the farm hands, she'd put him in the high chair, then she'd dab his fingertips with molasses and hand him a white chicken feather to keep him busy. There's a photo of him with that in one of his old photo albums, this chunky little boy with red cheeks and a serious frown on his face as he studies the feather in his fingers. He said she told him he'd pass it from hand to hand, mystified by why it kept sticking to his fingers and trying to drop it and then getting mystified all over again. I die laughing every time I hear that story, and I tell you true, I have used that trick myself to keep my own kids busy when they were babies!! Except it was honey and a blade of grass!!
Kind of hard to mourn someone when you're snickering and snorting about all the funny stories you know. And there were a lot. The time he was pestering the Blonde Sister when she was about 10, picking on her at the dinner table and just being a stinker, and she finally had enough and launched a spoonful of mashed potatoes at his face. Hit him square in the nose. Fortunately, after one horrified moment on the part of Mom and both of my sisters, he burst out laughing. The time when I was about three or four and he pretended to be sound asleep while I carefully applied the makeup I had swiped from my sisters and my mother, then blinking in a puzzled manner when he sat up, while I rolled on the floor in peals of laughter. The dance at the Blonde Sister's wedding when he did the Bump with the Blonde Sister, the Jitterbug with my mother, and the Hokey Pokey with all the little kids that were still awake. The huge bass he caught and landed, only to have it stolen by a very bold raccoon before he could even get it off the hook and how he had chased it, shouting, "You come back here! You come back here with my fish!!" and everyone thought he had lost his mind because only two other people had seen the raccoon...
I could go on and on. My dad was a jerk sometimes, scary sometimes, but he did hilariously funny things a lot that were mostly unintentional (which made them even funnier). So, it helped to sit there and tell all our funny stories, setting aside the bad memories for now, and enjoying the good. I think it was something Mom needed, something we all needed.
And maybe one day, the Flaky Sister's Incredibly Salty Country Ham will join the massive collection of funny stories we tell at frequent intervals. Heaven knows, we need to laugh at that!!
