It’s 9:36am, and the yellow lab I’ve been watching has just started waking up. My temporary neighbor and colleague, Jen, calls. “Do you want pancakes?” And so begins Thanksgiving at 30.
After an hour of carbs, coffee, conversation and good company, I retreat back to the pup. We stroll through the neighborhood, seeing no one.
Thanksgiving wasn’t always like this.
Before my Grandma got sick, she prepared everything from the silver dollar buns to the piecrust. (There’s a reason I called her Pancake Grandma!) The only thing that came from a box was the Stovetop Stuffing, which she occasionally gave her own flair, thanks to her husband’s controversial preference of raisins.
The kitchen’s traditions included more than the feat of the feast that is Thanksgiving (how one person could make turkey, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, sweet and mashed potatoes, rolls, stuffing, and pie, I’ll never know) but also included what was on TV. In the kitchen was the parade and dog show, because both Grandma and I loved dear ol’ John O’Hurley (Peterman from Steinfeld). Inevitably, the Packers played in the Den.
Thanksgiving was a labor of love.
And when Grandpa died, Grandma still prepared nearly everything. Food was her love language, after all.
As I grew older, I tried to be helpful, designing place cards, despite our food-loving group getting smaller and smaller. That first year after Grandpa passed, the routine was still very much the same: feast, watch, play cards, feast again. And yet. When 1:01pm hit, after saying grace with my brother, I tried to be gracious, sharing, “thank you so much for this beautiful feast… but where’s the stuffing?”
She didn’t realize Grandpa wasn’t the only one who loved Stovetop “dressing.” I didn’t like the raisins and told her as such. And so Thanksgiving went on, saddened by the absence of stuffing.
Every year after, Grandma made sure a mound of the stuff(ing) always started right next to me, stuffing at my left, place card to my right.
She never forgot.
Her memory started to fade. Then, one year, Grandma forgot I wanted to learn how to make pumpkin pie. Her crust was the stuff of legend and yet for years, I said I never liked the sweet treat (I still regret this selective absence of carbs).
Grandma always remembered the one-time absence of stuffing.
And yet. When her daughter, my mom, took over Thanksgiving, we dubbed it Tacogiving. Intermixed with black olives, tortilla “shells” of every variation, grilled mushrooms and onions from my dad, and cilantro and onion, was stuffing.
Henceforth, stuffing always started at my left. As Tacogiving became the new tradition, and the tacos shifted from midwestern to Mexican flavors, inspired in part by my partner at the time, there would still be stuffing. There’d also always be pumpkin pie, thanks to my cousin Emily learning how to make it.
I’d have tacos with chicken, cilantro, cheese, and stuffing. With chicken, cranberry, onion, and stuffing. Always Stovetop stuffing. And I’d finally started having small slivers of pie, too.
This is my first Thanksgiving without Grandma. And it’s not the first without stuffing.
But I am grateful: for a dog as a companion, a Friendsgiving with sourdough stuffing a couple days ago, authentic tacos delivered right to my door, a Zoom call with my family, and so many memories of Grandma. I hope I never forget.
1 thought on “Remembering Grandma over Tacos and Stuffing”