First, I want to be clear, that I’m not talking about “soul food” in terms of black or white folks’ cooking. I’m talking about the idea of “soul food” as “food you put your soul into”. Food you make because of love, either for the food itself or for the people for whom you are making it.
I read LZ Granderson’s blog page: My first Thanksgiving with white people, and it made me think about some things.
The point he was trying to make was that while he felt like he was a smart and learned guy, there was a lot about the world he didn’t know and had yet to figure out.
The point I picked up from the post was where he talks about how different family members made the different foods for Thanksgiving and they poured a lot of time and effort and love into the food. His line, “That’s what soul food is about. My family didn’t have a whole lot to give, but what we had plenty of was love and we poured that love, our soul into the food.”
Every year I wonder why I put myself through the effort and tedium and actual physical pain of hosting Thanksgiving. I mean, aside from the fact that my house is actually large enough to keep the whole family for a few days and my kitchen is most conducive to cooking a large meal. I’m very happy about that and happy to oblige on that point.
But JEEZ…why do I really want to do this year after year after year? It wrecks my back, and there are always too many people in the kitchen to move efficiently, or not enough people helping out so that I feel like I’m doing everything, and inevitably there are arguments about the potatoes or the gravy or the whatever. And whether the kids will actually EAT any of the food being slaved over is really a crapshoot. Shit. Why not just make a huge pot of spaghetti and be done with it?
Because Thanksgiving is an important and distinct memory for me — our Thanksgivings weren’t always traditional, and they CERTAINLY wouldn’t qualify as formal affairs, though they were definitely (along with Christmas Dinner) the most formal meals my family ever had. But they were what they were and I smile at the memories. I smile at the recollections of my brother trying to throw wadded up napkins into a drink glass at the other end of the table. I smile at the thoughts of the times that someone said or did something ridiculous and I would laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. And I smile at the idea of being able to eat some of my favorite foods, that are made only at Thanksgiving.
I know my son isn’t a big fan of the family recipe stuffing, or of much else that’s served. But he’s 10. That may change. He may decide in a few years that Mom’s turkey stuffing (which is actually MY father’s stuffing recipe) is really the best stuffing he’s ever had, and he too will look forward to it on Thanksgiving. Maybe some day he’ll see it like I see it: not having it would be a personal travesty.
My mom makes cranberry relish, and I will get that recipe from her some day. And I will get to make the relish one day and it won’t be as good as hers…at first anyway. But I’ll figure it out and make it my own. Just like I have with Dad’s stuffing recipe. I’m pretty damned good at it now, I think. For me, those two things are really the keystone of Thanksgiving — they are things that I would never get having Thanksgiving with anyone else’s family, as the recipes are distinctly ours. They are to me as Granderson’s family’s greens or the paprika on the potato salad. Everyone has Turkey. No one else has my dad’s stuffing.
Sometimes there are suggestions to do things a little differently, like smoking the turkey or deep frying the turkey, or having ham instead of turkey. And we try these things out now and again. But we always come back to the way my family has always done it.
And every year, the house fills with those smells that you only get once a year. The smell of the roasting turkey, mixed with the smell of the seasonings and apples in the stuffing. The smell of the sweet potatoes. The smell of the giblets happily boiling away in a pot for gravy. And those smells, like many smells, trigger all kinds of happy memories. It’s the smell of Thanksgiving at MY house. Regardless of which house that is or how old I am.
So I start about an hour before the turkey has to go into the oven. I chop celery. I chop apples, I brown the butter and toast the almonds. I add herbs and spices to the stuffing cubes and shake it in an enormous pot. The I add the other items and shake again. Then I add some more things and shake some more. Until it’s perfectly blended, smells just right, and is ready to stuff into the bird. And the muscles in my back are so tight I can barely walk.
Then I begin planning the rest of the cooking of the meal; when to peel and start boiling the potatoes; which burner will the sweet potatoes be cooked on; when do the rolls need to go into the oven; what will need to come OFF the stove to make room for the green beans (no we don’t do casserole…that was never part of my family’s tradition).
And I begin prepping the table; who will sit where; get the card table from the basement for the kids; where is my good table cloth; where are my placemats; where are my grandmother’s linen napkins.
Okay – I need to sit down for a few minutes, then stretch my back and find an icy hot patch.
So why on earth do I do these things? Why do I put myself through this?
I do this out of love — love for my family; love for the food; and yes, selfishly, love for the memories it brings me of my childhood.
And with any luck, I am helping create happy memories for MY children about the fun, warmth, closeness, and love, that surrounds the crowded and hectic tradition of family Thanksgivings.
So while I do put a lot of effort and love into all the other meals I make during the year, Thanksgiving dinner is special.
Thanksgiving dinner is this white girl’s version of soul food.
