A few days before the big day, she’d head down to our local grocery store—back then it was called Foodtown, though it’s Thriftown now for reasons I’ll never understand. She’d come home with a 12- to 15-pound turkey that looked big enough to feed the entire congregation, a huge bunch of collard greens, a bag of cornmeal, a dozen eggs, milk, butter, and a couple cans of pumpkin for her famous pie.
Mama always said Thanksgiving dinner didn’t just happen—it took elbow grease, timing, and a good dose of don’t you dare get in my way. She didn’t want help, and we all knew better than to offer. I used to love watching her wrestle that big old bird into the roasting pan, smearing butter under its skin like she was tucking it in for a long winter’s nap. She’d pop it into the oven in the wee morning hours while the rest of us were still dreaming about the feast to come.
A day or two before, she’d tackle the collard greens. Lord, I hated that smell—it would hang in the air for hours, seeping into every curtain and cushion in the house. But everyone else loved them, so I learned to just breathe through my mouth and wait it out.
Then came the cornbread. Mama would mix cornmeal, eggs, and buttermilk in her big glass bowl, her small hands moving fast, turning that mixture into gold. By the time she was done, her hands would be red as tomatoes from washing them in water so hot it could peel paint. I used to wonder if that was her secret ingredient—fiery determination and water that could boil eggs.
When the kitchen smelled like heaven and everything was ready, Mama would call one of us kids in to set the table. We never quite knew how many people were coming because Mama had a habit of inviting half the neighborhood and any stray cousin who might be within a 50-mile radius. “The more, the merrier,” she’d say, and somehow there was always enough to go around.
When it came time to bless the food, Mama took charge. Daddy wasn’t much for praying out loud, but he sure did love to wrestle us kids for the pully bone afterward. He called it “settlin’ things the old-fashioned way.” Somehow, he always won.
It was hot in that kitchen from the oven working overtime, but nobody minded. The windows would fog up, laughter would fill the air, and plates would overflow with turkey, dressing, greens, and love.
Looking back now, I realize Mama wasn’t just cooking a meal—she was serving up tradition, faith, and family. She made sure we knew that Thanksgiving wasn’t just about the food on the table but about the hearts around it.
And if I close my eyes, I can still hear her saying, “Now y’all hush and bow your heads—we’re gonna thank the Lord proper.”
Dear Lord, thank You for the hands that cook, the hearts that gather, and the memories that keep us warm long after the dishes are done. Thank You for family—by blood and by choice—and for every blessing that fills our plates and our souls. Help us to carry gratitude not just on Thanksgiving, but every day we’re given breath. And Lord, if You don’t mind, could You make sure Mama’s kitchen up there has plenty of butter and just the right size turkey? Amen.
Random Musings © Bonnie Annis 2025
