It’s almost Thanksgiving so let’s talk turkey. I was reading through some back issues of my Bittersweet magazines and found a great article written by Doug Sharp based on an interview he had done with John Earl Kays of Falcon MO back in 1978, known at the time to be one of the best turkey hunters in the area. Doug’s informational essay detailed the amount of patience and skill required of the hunter to harvest “the big one” and it certainly made me appreciate the convenience of buying my turkey at the grocery store.
We had a skilled turkey hunter in the church I pastored in Farmington and when he invited Milan and me to his home in Doe Run to eat fried turkey, we didn’t hesitate, although we had no idea what we were in for.
Usually his wife did the cooking but when it came to frying the wild turkey fresh from the hunt, John took over the kitchen. He sliced up the turkey breast into small thin pieces about the size of a large potato chip, breaded them in his own seasoned flour mixture and fried each piece for just a few minutes in hot oil.
I will tell you that not ever before, and never since, have I ever tasted anything so tender and melt in your mouth delicious. Every season while we were there when he got “the big one”, he would fry up another turkey for us, served with all the accompaniments. I know. Being a pastor is a hard job but somebody has to do it!
Our families didn’t have turkey when we were growing up in the Fifties. They were considered “rich people’s food” and I’m not sure if they were even available in the stores back then.
About the time we graduated from high school our respective families began the turkey tradition at Thanksgiving and we would eat either with my grandmother Nellie Dame or at Milan's folks' house.
Ever since our wedding in November 1963, the month has always been a bittersweet time for us. Just a week after our first anniversary in 1964 my youngest sister was killed in a car wreck on Tuesday before Thanksgiving with the funeral on Friday. It was a sad time, but we found our faith keeps us thankful even in the sad times.
In 1996 our daughter and son-in-law chose our November wedding date for their own wedding, giving us the opportunity to celebrate together each year that we can.
I remember watching my grandmother make her savory cornbread dressing, which is my favorite part of the dinner, even more so than the turkey. The word “stuffing” was never used in our house because she didn’t stuff the turkey but baked it separately.
She began freezing her leftover corn bread several weeks before Thanksgiving and put it out to thaw when she put the turkey in the oven. I would watch her beat up several eggs in the biggest bowl she had (to make the dressing light and fluffy she said) and then crumble the cornbread into the eggs, adding chopped celery and onions along with salt and some sugar. She would then sprinkle ground sage over it all and finally wet the whole concoction down with hot turkey broth before putting it in the oven to bake.
After she died in 1984, I started making her dressing the same way and I found out that once you think you have added enough sage, always put in a little more.
She loved to tell this story on me how when she was at our house one summer, she noticed we had sage growing in the fence row of our little garden plot on Beverly Drive. I had no idea what it was, it just came up volunteer I guess. She picked several handfuls and brought them in and laid them on a paper towel in my kitchen. The next time she came back, she asked me where her sage was. I told her it had all dried out so I threw it away!
Several years ago Milan planted some sage in a container on our front porch and I picked it when it was ready and took it upstairs to dry. I had sage spread all over every surface in two bedrooms but I found out it takes a lot of sage leaves to make enough to rub out for dressing, and I decided it was easier and quicker to buy it in the little spice jars at the store.
While I was learning how to make her dressing, Milan was watching her cook her fabulous cranberry sauce, adding much more sugar than the cranberry sack called for, and just a little water, then letting them boil slowly while she stirred until they burst wide open in the pan, and finally setting them aside to let them cool and thicken.
Now Milan cooks up about eight sacks of cranberries each November and we freeze them in small batches, hoping to have enough to last until they come back into the stores. We never do. We eat turkey and chicken all through the year. Even my son-in-law and granddaughters, who thought they wouldn’t eat cranberries, always insist that “Papa” make his cranberries for Thanksgiving dinner.
A few years ago after my health made it impossible for us to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for our family at our house, our daughter asked us how to make her great-grandmother’s dressing and cranberry sauce, and the tradition lives on.
Thank you for taking this little trip down memory lane with me. Our memories grow sweeter every year and I have found that sometimes my memories turn to liquid and run down my cheeks.
Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.”
― Alfred Tennyson
Comments