heh. this, a memory of old, before the dark times. brought forth by someone speaking elsewhere on unexpected surprises of taste.
when i was very young, my great-grandparents used to make something of a downright feast for the thanksgiving holiday. great-grandmother had one heck of a vegetable garden to call upon, so we were never lacking for delicious things to accompany the hearty meats that were served.
i’ve always been a fan of the potato myself. i tend to think it must be genetic (irish) since i don’t recall any particular reason for it… just have always loved them. and of course, great-grandmother knew this, so whenever i was there, potatoes were always served.
the last thanksgiving with family, when i was four, things were no different. the family had something of a tradition of not eating the night before or the day of thanksgiving… the running joke was that this was the way to insure we were all of an appropriately thankful mind when the meal hit the table. it worked. heh.
great-grandmother spent the good part of three days preparing that feast. and my grandmother, her twin sister and the elder sister all arrived to pitch in and help out the day of…
it was something of a torment, thanksgiving day. the entire house smelled of spices and wonderful things being stewed, baked, basted, braised, and boiled. my younger sister and i would peek around the corner, knee-high, and look up at the massive pots and pans giving off amazing gouts of steam. the music of simmering lids and boiling metals were quite the tease to young stomachs.
oddly, no matter how consistently great-grandmother served potatoes, i always looked to ‘make sure’ they were on the menu. heh. this day no different than the rest, little eyes scanned hungrily until they came to rest on the giant boiler in which white orbs boiled. grinning to myself to imagine starchy delight smothered in gravies, i nodded and toddled off to play in the flower gardens.
they never had to call us more than once for thanksgiving dinner, and usually, they didn’t have to call us at all. we were magically attuned to the sound of the sliding glass door, adults and children alike would stop cold and swung fully bodied, hungry happiness at the sound of snicking lock and the light ‘whuff’ of movement.
thinking back on it, i smile for the kindness of grownups who excused the rowdy, rough-and-tumble, pell mell rushing of young feet and the pushing to make sure we passed them and got inside FIRST.
you haven’t really had thanksgiving until you’ve had it ‘southern style’… it’s something of an art, the creation of the buffet. often abused by a number of franchises, setting foods out by type or temperature. but the true buffet is a thing of strategy and planning. as much an arrangement of color as foods, and all with a mindful attention to making the process of obtaining simple and easy.
the grownups ‘made our plates’ for us, but we got to say what went on them. this, a rarity that we savored beyond my ability to convey… the first real control over what we were given, though of course, it wasn’t realized as such beyond avoiding what we didn’t care for and getting what we did.
my grandmother would ask me in a neutral voice if i wanted potatoes. hah. i know now that she did it only for the amusement of hearing me bark with surprise, “YES!” as if there were any question. i suspect it was a humor they shared and i smile for that as well.
for whatever reason, this year was different in that i was allowed to make my OWN plate. oh boy. talk about being puffed up proud. i could actually see and reach over the table, and i suspect that was part of it. they handed me that triple-ply chinet and set me loose.
turkey and dressing and black-eyed peas were a given. green beans, squash, and carrots nestled in small heaps inbetween them. and, of course, potatoes.
she always cooked them whole, which my young mind and stomach appreciated because they were HUGE and i wanted them big… hunger wanted to pretty much wipe out the spud population all the time. i loaded three of those bad boys on my plate and set off to the condiment table where salt, pepper, butter, sour cream, bacon bits, and other yummies waited.
finally settling at the table, my drink waiting for me, i all but slavered to get those taters in my mouth. fork speared, lifting, eyes closing, mouth opening, tongue literally quivering… set it inside and then….
pure and utter shock. disbelief. the taste was wrong. the taste was ALL WRONG.
eyes flying open and body heaving at the unexpected sensation, turning my head wildly as i looked for the napkin, knowing that to spit it out was just not going to be permitted.
it was then that it registered… the grown ups, to a one, were rolling on the floor laughing. figuratively, of course. and not unkindly. their eyes sparked with merriment and both my grandmother and great-grandmother were struggling visibly between laughter and compassion.
they finally caught their breath and my grandmother asked between chuckles, ‘what’s the matter, dear? is something wrong with the potatoes?’
naturally, that set the other grown ups off again and there was another round of humor. by now, i understood and so i was laughing, too, ‘THOSE are NOT potatoes!’
yet another gale of laughter.
‘yes, dear, we know…. but would you have listened?’
my turn to laugh, and to make them laugh once more as i asked, ‘Where are the potatoes?’
my grandmother set her plate aside, removed the offending vegetables from my plate, and set two potatoes in their place. mollified, i returned to my table and quickly forgot all of it as i lost myself in eating.
to this day, i detest turnips.