Friday, Sep 5, 2008
The Colonel's secret Thanksgiving recipe
The week before our much-anticipated Thanksgiving Day feast at my Grandmother McNutt's home, the word came. The Petit Jean ham that had, every year past, been lovingly wrapped in tin foil and placed in the oven hours ahead of the dinner, would not be. The brown beans, sorted, washed and soaked, would not stain the crockpot. Cornbread would not brown to a crisp at the edges and pull away from the baking pan. The crust of the karo nut pie with all its syrupy goodness would not flake on the tablecloth. Painstakingly embroidered with the names of family members living and dead, the tablecloth would not even grace the old brown kitchen table. The old brown laminated kitchen table would not bear the weight of the feast that always sprang from my granny's arthritic yet capable hands each Thanksgiving.
The word came straight from my grandmother's mouth. There could be no mistake. There could be no doubt. A new man would be cooking our Thanksgiving feast. Granny had a brand new bag -- and that bag boasted a KFC logo. The Colonel was coming to Thanksgiving Day dinner.
I sat silently across the kitchen table from Granny as she blasphemed. She was speaking of our Thanksgiving Day dinner as if it was any dinner of the year. My head was light. I felt dizzy. I couldn't focus on the KFC menu that she had thrust under my hanging head.
In my head, I shouted, "You can't! Grandfather McNutt (Pa Pa) has barely been in the grave for two years. I need this normalcy. I need you to be the same. I need my Petit Jean baked ham and karo nut pie, old woman. Don't you understand?!"
Everything else in my life had changed -- divorce, new home, new job, new hair. My grandfather with his unfiltered Camels and thick black coffee was gone. I just needed one thing to remain the same. For one day out of the entire year, I just needed to sit down to a plate of my Granny's lard-laden Thanksgiving fare and eat with reckless abandon.
Calmly, I suggested that she should order whatever she wished from KFC. Outwardly, I didn't question her decision to have KFC cater our Thanksgiving Day dinner. I didn't question her motives. I didn't question her taste buds. Nothing I said or did would change her German-engineered mind. I calmly accepted my fate, even as my innards churned violently. I did this for a very good reason. Despite the fact that I'm 30-ish and my granny is a bit older, to this day she would box my jaws if I dared sass her. So, as I left, I hugged my granny, never letting on that anything was wrong.
Somehow, my car ended up at my parents' farm. I was still shaken and dazed. I fumbled for the words to tell my mother about the Thanksgiving travesty that had befallen the family. The words would not come. It didn't matter. She already knew. She would be taking Granny to the KFC to pick up our holiday fodder on Wednesday.
I smiled patiently and corrected my mother, "You mean Thursday." No, she didn't mean Thursday. No, they'd be pickin' up our vittles on Wednesday and then we could warm up the food on Thursday.
The whole business was beginning to stick in my craw. I had had it up to my goozle with the whole mess. I looked at my mother with craziness in my eyes. "Granny can't do this," I said. "It's wrong. I won't go. I will not go to Grandmother McNutt's for Thanksgiving." I didn't say anything else. Neither did my mother. She knew as well as I did that it was an empty threat. I would go. I would make nice. I would eat my day-old drumstick as if it were a big chunk of moist, warm baked Petit Jean ham. I didn't have to like it. But I damn sure better pretend to like it. Otherwise, I'd get my damn jaws boxed.
And so, the day came. I rolled out of bed and into the liquor cabinet. From the cabinet's depths I pulled a bottle of Old Charter. I tucked the bottle in my bag and left to go to my grandmother's house. I came back to my house a few minutes later, put on my clothes and brushed my teeth. OK, I wasn't that scatterbrained, but I was razzle-dazzled. Who can blame me?
Sure, Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for that which we are thankful. Thanksgiving is about family and friends. It's about being with people you care about. However, I would contend that when a large portion of the fast-food eating masses decide -- en masse, no less -- to forgo cold cuts for a day in favor of a large chunk of beast, be it turkey, ham, duck, opossum or guinea fowl, then maybe, just maybe, Thanksgiving is also about the food.
I spent the day in a whiskey-altered state of warmth and happiness. I wasn't knee-walking drunk, mind you. Had I been obviously intoxicated, Granny would have given me a good talkin' to. I would have received the versatile lecture that can be tailored to fit sins and vices of all shapes and sizes. It always began with, "Now, hon, this is Granny talkin'," and ended with, "Do you want to spend your eternity surrounded by hellfire and brimstone?"
"What is brimstone?" I always wanted to ask. But that question would have resulted in another jaw-boxing, so I refrained.
No one save Bub and Sug, my younger brothers, knew that my soda held the secret to my good-natured attitude. They would never dare rat me out, for, you see, their soda held the magic elixir as well. Thankfully, the day ended without incident.
The next day I crawled from my burrow just long enough to go to the Kroger. I needed supplies. After the KFC incident, I needed to balance my inner spirit. My karma was all out of whack. I needed chocolate ice cream. For good measure, I also picked up a six-pack of beer.
Walking to the front of the store, I looked at my fellow shoppers. They were all cheerful and happy with big smiles on their faces. In their glaring grins, I could just make out the bits of ham and turkey still stuck between their teeth from yesterday's Thanksgiving dinner. One man even had the gall to brush away a bit of flaky pie crust that was nestled on the front of his overstuffed shirt. My scowl turned to a pout and I marched even faster to the front of the store. Bastards! Nothing but a bunch of karo-nut-pie and turkey-munching bastards. They were mocking me with their big bellies and their shiny, lard-nourished pelts. I averted my eyes and fled to the cashier's counter.
Well, there's always Christmas. Probably have Taco Bell. That reminds me, I'm out of whiskey.
-- Kimberly G. Allison
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