Her Cornbread Dressing

A food memory ritual...

Growing up, I was surrounded by strong, feisty, women, the strongest of which was my mother. And she had to be. Her father, whom she adored, died from an accidental gunshot wound when she was in middle school. He was the rock of her family and she often talked about how, when she was a little girl called Baby Jean, it was he who prepared evening meals while she stood in a chair beside him at the stove. Of course everyone loved her mother as well but she was generally considered, as one of my cousins later put it, a "little hellcat" who was not very domesticated.

While grieving over her father, she had to learn some responsibilities to help take care of things, the chief among these was to get food on the table. At her house growing up, and my house as I grew up with her, meals were necessary sustinance. Things were simple, repetitive, and cooked fast on high heat. A week would consistently feature thin pork chops, ground beef whether with spaghetti noodles or as hamburger steak, fried chicken, always fried potatoes at every meal, and always biscuits.

Mom married my birth father when she was still in high school and while they were crazy in love, his addiction to alcohol and associated personality changes doomed the marriage and they divorced. He repented and promised to change and did for awhile. They remarried and mom became pregnant with me and I grew up hearing that the months of her pregnancy were the happiest of her life as he honored his promise. Until I was born and he returned to drinking and they divorced again, this time for good. I was told by her and my father's sister that when he was sober, he never knew a stranger, that he made people feel comfortable and could make them laugh, and was intelligent. But when he drank to excess, you did not want to be around him. Both told me that I reminded them of my father when he was sober and they were grateful for that.

After the second divorce, my mother was alone, now with two children. Not long after, mom married my stepfather, a wonderful man who was caring and kind but was also an over-the-road truck driver who was away most of the time. She worked full time, took care of my brother and me, took immaculate care of our home, prepared meals, did shopping, laundry, and anything else that needed to be done when "dad" as we called our stepfather was on the road. Mom often talked about people having or not having "gumption" and I grew up understanding she meant an ability to put your head down and do what needs to be done, regardless of how you feel or what you want. She never referred to herself but I grew up knowing my mom had boatloads of gumption.

Her style of cooking and menu selections did not change through growing up, marriage, divorce, remarriage, divorcing again, and remarriage. I grew up in the sixties and my brother and I learned that when she called you for dinner, it was not an invitation, it was a clarion call. A single call of "come to dinner!" meant it's on the table, the dinner window is open, and will be closing soon. I can't share a story of missing a meal only because I knew that being late would mean no dinner. I wasn't willing to take that chance.

I hope this doesn't come across harsh because we never thought of it that way. She awakened before the sun and began her housework before preparing breakfast, always of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. Oh, and did I mention coffee? I learned to drink coffee before I attended school. I have to say, I'm still very good at it. In order to get everything done, she had to do it in her own way. Her primary duty was to take care of us (and later, everyone else in our extended family) and she did so. I get tired writing this just thinking of her seven day a week schedule.

Mom loved holidays but especially Thanksgiving and Christmas because that's when all of the family would come together. Most of our family lived in the same area so we were blessed to have everyone gather at my grandmother's house (her hellcat days sadly ended when she broke her hip and was confined to a chair until she died.) During my life, mom was happiest, I believe, during the holidays. She still worked her tail off but there was an immense joy associated with the work. She adored her brother and his family and I saw a playful side of mom when she was around "Junior" as they called him, that I didn't seem much otherwise and I loved it.

As is common today, everyone brought dishes to contribute to the Thanksgiving dinner but the centerpiece was mom's chicken and cornbread dressing. This was nothing like the regular meals for the other 51 weeks of the year. This was a labor of love that took a few days beginning with the making of the cornbread and homemade biscuits and finishing with the roasting of a hen, sautéing (no, no one I knew used that word back then) onions and celery and combining the shredded chicken white meat with the above, eggs, and sage and poultry seasoning with a great deal of chicken stock to create what was, and is, the best thing I've ever tasted. When mom made her dressing, dad was called into the kitchen to taste the mixture for seasoning. This usually required about three efforts as she worked to get the flavor just right. Dad took this job seriously and mom knew his judgment was always right.

Mostly in the South, we refer to this as dressing because no one I knew actually put it into the cavity of a bird and called it stuffing. Instead, mom flipped the scripts and put the chicken into the dressing and baked it. It was slightly crispy on top and incredibly soft and moist inside. Not like the hard squares of harsh dressing we were served in grade school. I always felt sorry for the other kids who liked what we had at school, only because they did not know better.

Around 1990, mom, in her late 50's, often began to feel fatigued and thought she was just wearing out. Then there was a strange sensation in her abdomen. She went to the doctor and tests determined she had ovarian cancer. Although terrified, at least she knew what she was dealing with, and determined to move ahead. She had surgery, chemo and radiation, and recovered. Her energy returned as did her life. She was told if she made it five years, she had a good chance of survival.

She made it four and a half when they discovered what were considered "minor" tumors that should be easily taken care of. She had surgery again and was preparing for the next round of chemo. She was still in the hospital Thanksgiving of 1994 and so we bought Thanksgiving dinner from Cracker Barrel and had it with her in her room. It was unanimous among our family that she could teach Cracker Barrel a thing or two about cornbread dressing when she recovered.

A few days later she began to run a very high fever and the doctor discovered that during surgery, her intestines were accidentally perforated and infections immediately set in. In spite of additional surgeries and treatments which prevented the chemo, the cancer returned. In spite of all efforts, she continued to deteriorate and never returned home from the hospital. She was only 63.

We all struggled to move forward without this presence in our lives. Dad was hospitalized with chest pains and after extensive tests, the doctor determined that they were a result of a broken heart. We all understood and moved forward as we could, in our own ways. For those who've also lost loved ones, we understand how the first holidays after a death provide painful reminders of your loss...the first Easter without them, remembering their first birthday after passing, and so forth.

Eventually, November came again and we had to figure out what we were going to do. Thanksgiving dinner had always been at mom's house and her mother's house before then. My wife and I decided to host and began to plan. We knew the guest list, that was easy. We asked guests to let us know what dishes they planned to bring to the meal and let them know we would prepare the turkey. Everyone responded and soon we knew our table would have favorites such as green beans, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, and rolls. It sounded wonderful.

Except it didn't.

Mom would not be there.

I tried to think about what I could do to somehow help to feel her presence. I decided to make her cornbread dressing.

I love to cook but I'd never done this before and mom never worked from a recipe so there was nothing in writing to go by. I knew cornbread, biscuits, onions, celery, boiled eggs, chicken stock, sage, and poultry seasonings were used. That was a start even if I didn't know any measurements. I did a little research and learned that the breads needed to be made in advance so they could actually dry out a bit. I decided to make my own turkey stock.

On Thanksgiving day, I geared up to prepare mom's dressing. When it came time for the seasoning, I called dad and asked him to come early. He was still going to be our taster and, after a few adjustments, he smiled and nodded. I added the turkey stock until the mixture was very soft, just like hers, and put it into the oven.

That was November of 1995 and mom and her dressing have been a part of our Thanksgivings every year since including this one. And although it's delicious, the real blessing is how it evokes memories of her, her ability to survive and, more importantly, to love and care for others. I am grateful for her example and the tireless selflessness and strength she demonstrated daily. I am blessed by this tangible way of remembering on this day.

She lived long enough for my sons to know her, especially my oldest and they are able to share stories with their children about her when we have the dressing. And I've written down my recipe for her dressing and given it to them and their families for when something happens to me and it's their time to prepare the dressing and share her stories.

Love and light, Terry