Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I just cooked for literally hours, ate, and cleaned every dish and utensil in my house at least twice. Now, before full food coma hits, it is time to process the occasion.

     I only experience a tiny bit of shame when I tell you that the actual reason Thanksgiving is my favorite is because of my Big Mama’s Dressin’. There isn’t another thing on the planet as good as that to my mouth. This is the second year in a row that the spirit of Big Mama showed up in my kitchen and blessed us with perfect Dressin’.  I have literal tears in my eyes, as I type this, that I can replicate a recipe she never wrote down.

     Thanksgiving isn’t anything like it used to be. Growing up there were always too many people in a small space, tables everywhere, all the family – old and young, and enough food for the entire community. It was loud and hot. The house was so small that the oven and stove running for days at a time heated the whole house. I remember having to run outside for a few minutes, even on years when it was bitter cold, to get a breath of fresh air and cool off. My grandparents’ house was ground zero for all holidays and everyone ended up there eventually. My grandmother did in days what I whine about doing in hours. Her kitchen was tiny. I am certain that the largest percentage of most of her days were spent in the kitchen. My grandmother loved us in lots of ways but one of the biggest ways was always food. She was gifted in the kitchen. The rest of us were gifted with the capacity to lift forks and spoons to our willing mouths.

    Now I live far away from pretty much everyone. While my mother was still alive we could make the holidays feel kinda right. Now she too is gone and I cook for the four of us in a house easily 3-4 times the size of my grandparents’ house. In some way it feels wrong. I never thought the heat and chaos made that much difference.

     As I was cleaning today, after we had eaten, tears started falling. I was thinking about Big Mama. I wondered what she thought about when she was cleaning up after all the feasting had come to an end. I wonder if she knew what she built. I wonder if she knew that we would draw on that energy and those memories for the rest of our lives. I wonder if she knew how dear to us she was.

     On TV, Thanksgiving is always portrayed by pretty people, dressed nicely,  sitting peacefully, going around the table saying what they are thankful for, carving the turkey, etc. It is always portrayed with such decorum. That just doesn’t resonate with me. Even so, since I got married and we became a family, I have always felt bad that I wasn’t living up to what TV says the holiday should look like. I have also felt bad that I can’t give my family what I grew up used to. I have been torn between tradition and experience…achieving neither.

As I was almost done cleaning, I got tickled remembering that just a few minutes before, my pajama clad 17 year old got up from the table and took her plate with her next door so the neighbor girl could try some dressin’. I wasn’t bothered at all by that. She was gone just long enough for Alana to agree that it is amazing and then returned. I smiled because that is exactly the kind of chaos that might have happened on Royal Rd. It was not unusual at all for the neighbors down the hill or any of their extended family to show up unannounced. It was magical and perfect.

     There is nothing wrong with decorum, if that appeals to you. There is a time and  place for everything. Thanksgiving, though, for us is a burp and unbutton your pants (or just wear stretchy pants to start with) type of occasion. There’s lots of food, a relaxed atmosphere, and loved to be shared. That’s what my Big Mama built. I saw that very clearly today. It was like she popped down from heaven for just long enough to stand at my kitchen island, flash her trademark grin and nod her head as if to say, “Yes! That is how we do it! Now git ya some more food!”. I realized that I am indeed carrying on our family “traditions”… as unconventional as they are.

     This Thanksgiving I am grateful for my Big Mama’s influence on me. I am grateful for the weird family I grew up in. I am grateful for the chaos and 10 conversations going on at once. I’m grateful for the tiny house that was bursting at the seams with family members. And, I am most grateful for ability to pass along some of that in my own way.