Thanksgiving

Granddaughter (in-law) Heather was cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her family and some of ours; many of our relatives were doing other things on the big day, so combining two families really didn't make for too huge a crowd.  I volunteered to make the mashed potatoes, knowing how rushed that last-minute prep for a big meal can be, and ended up making a few other things.

I began thinking about my favorite holiday dishes.  Knowing full well nobody would eat much of either one, I made them anyhow, just for myself.  I should try cutting the recipes at least by half, but I never do.  They really aren't traditional holiday dishes.  Well, I guess the cranberry stuff (Mother called it cranberry salad, but it isn't a salad) is traditional in my own family, but I don't know anyone else that even makes it.  And the macaroni salad is a recipe I just happen to love that came straight from the pages of an old Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.  

Hang on, I did a quick Google search of the ingredients and found that someone else DOES make it, minus the nuts.  I imagine the nuts were my mom's idea, because she put nuts in every sweet holiday recipe she used.  Click HERE and scroll down to see a blogger talking about "Cranberry Cream Dream" and sharing the recipe.  But I digress.

I can eat my mother's cranberry salad until I'm sick, and still keep on eating.  Something about that sweet/tart (more sweet than tart), creamy, nutty dish affects me like a drug affects a druggie!  Most people don't even try the stuff when I take it to a gathering, I guess because there's so many other sweet dishes on the table; or maybe they don't like cranberries.  The thing is, I'm always happy to take it home with me and eat it all myself.  I even sometimes HOPE nobody else eats any.  I wish I were hungry right now, I'd go have some.  Cliff had a bowl of cereal for breakfast, but I'm still waiting for hunger to set in.  I'm as full now as I was when I went to bed.

I didn't make any pies because I knew Heather's Grandma Sandy would bring some, and she is a pie guru.  Yep, Cliff and I had our first pumpkin pie of the season, and Sandy insisted we take the three remaining pieces.  "I have another one at home," she told us.  I love that woman. 

We ate in the shop, simply because Heather and Arick don't have a lot of seating room in the house.  When dinner was over and Heather was getting the meat off the turkey bones for storage, I told her I'd take the roaster full of bones home for my turkey frame soup and wash the pan for her before I brought it back.  I also rescued a meaty ham bone that was destined for the trash can.  Because who doesn't love beans cooked with a ham bone?  

I had some last-minute shopping to do Wednesday, so the little girl and I went along with Cliff when he went for his radiation treatment.  When he got out I said, "Go to Costco so I can get one of those cooked chickens for $4.99.  I'll just run in and get the chicken, nothing else.  Otherwise we're going to be eating out, and it will cost a lot more than five bucks."

Who buys a cooked chicken the day before Thanksgiving?  I wasn't even thinking about all the leftovers and bones I'd have when the big feast was over the next day.  Cliff and I each had a chicken-leg and thigh at home Wednesday (the kid wanted a PBJ sandwich), along with some peas and a baked potato cooked in the microwave: a real quickie meal, but delicious and cheap.  This left me with most of a chicken in the refrigerator on the day before turkey day.  It's OK, though.  This morning I took the chicken off the bones, saved the meat in a couple of separate freezer bags and the bones in another (yes, I save chicken bones until I have a lot, then make broth), and the chicken is saved.  I can almost taste the chicken salad sandwiches now!  Except... I'm not hungry.  

So we had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with the family members that were in the area, and today I eat cranberry stuff, macaroni salad, and pumpkin pie all day long.  I won't be getting on the scales until next Monday.  The results won't be pretty, but usually within a week of eating right, I'm right back where I should be.  If not, give it time.  Christmas won't be here for a month.

Here's hoping all my readers had a perfect Thanksgiving, with memories to spare.

Peace.

P.S.  I think I'm almost hungry now.

Facing the facts

There are phases of growing older that I noticed in my mother as she aged.  One thing that particularly bothered me was the way she clung to "stuff", insignificant items we all knew she would never need or use again.  I even saw her cry at the idea of leaving items behind when she and Daddy were moving out here to our place.  "I'm having to give up everything," she said, alluding to the fact that Daddy's cancer would eventually take him away from her.

We moved boxes of old double-knit clothing she'd bought at garage sales with the intention of cutting them up to use as quilt pieces, and she did make quite a few quilts after that.  But some of the stuff really made no sense at all.  However, we designated one little outbuilding as her storage space.  Most all of it was still there when she moved on to senior apartments, piled high with boxes.  From there, she placed herself in the nursing home of her choice, and that little shed remained full of her "stuff" until her death, at which time it was all hauled away as trash.  The only thing of any value among all that junk was a can of motor oil, which Cliff kept and used.

Yesterday I had a revelation that made me understand what prompted Mother's unwillingness to part with seemingly useless things.  Cliff is always looking for space to store various tractor parts and seldom-used tools, things he will likely need at some point but doesn't want the clutter where he has to look at it. Yesterday as he donned his coveralls to go outside, he said, "Hadn't I might as well tear that stanchion out of the corner of the barn?"

A panicky feeling clutched my heart as I hesitated, then said, "Well... we might need it sometime to restrain an animal we need to work with, so as long as I'm raising a calf or two each year, maybe you should leave it there."

It only took a minute or two for me to recall my mother crying over junk she deemed as precious, and to then see what I was doing.  I told Cliff, "Never mind.  Go ahead and take it out.  My problem is that taking the stanchion out reminds me I will never milk another Jersey cow, and that's silly, because of course I won't.  You can have that space."

Can you believe as I typed that last paragraph, my eyes teared up?  Me!  I don't cry, hardly ever.  Even at funerals of loved ones.  I just don't.  But somehow the idea of admitting I will never have another milk cow makes me cry; that's really pathetic and self-centered of me, but there you have it.  

I understand now how Mother was feeling, and her motivation for those feelings; I hope God will pass my apology along to her.  This is one of countless times that I've glanced heavenward and said, "I'm sorry, Mother."

Getting older means giving up things as it becomes necessary.  I still have my mobility, and a husband by my side.  I have much to be thankful for and I feel so very blessed.  I need to remember to count the things I can still do and rejoice, rather than mourning for things I'm unable to accomplish these days.

Peace.  I hope you find it easier to let go of cherished skills and talents as they're lost than my mom and I have.

On another note, in the previous entry somebody called to my attention that music on CD followed after cassettes, not 8-tracks.  So probably that was a cassette player in our pickup back in the 70's.