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Texas Agriculture Archive

November 15, 2002

Thanksgiving is just around the corner and Mel is already busy planning the menu.

"You know, most celebrations revolve aroun' food," he said. "'At orta tell folks sump'n. Thanks to the farmers an' ranchers in this country, we have so much good food—especially raht here in Texas—it orta be aginst the law!"

"Good thing it's not, or you'd be behind bars," I remarked.

My husband got out his yellow legal pad and started scratching out his grocery list.

"What are we having, one of those HeeHaw meals of cathead biscuits, red-eye gravy, poke salad, possum and shoo-fly pie—yummm?" I joked.

"Kiney hard to find 'em ingredients at H-E-B...I moan smoke a turkey an' a beef brisket, cook a ham, bake a coupla hens with cornbread dressin', an fix a double portion o' good ol' giblet gravy," he said, jotting it down as he spoke. "Guess I'd better put down a case o' chicken broth an' four dozen eggs. Thought I'd git enough sos I can devil a few..."

"Don't forget the cranberry sauce—the whole berry kind," I told him.

"Let's see, whur wuz I...oh yeah, how 'bout I git a buncha yams an' you can whup up a batch o' sweet potaters with nutmeg like you done last year? Lemme see, frozen peas for pea salad...macaroni an' cheese, stuff fer green bean casserole, an' green salad fixins', a pound o' butter, some evaporated milk, brown n' serve rolls..."

"I think you should make the rolls from scratch, instead of serving fakes," I said. "Or we could just drag out the leftover bread, hamburger buns, and biscuits you've been stashing in the freezer."

"That goes in the dressin'," he said. (Mel's a pro when it comes to making cornbread dressing, I might add. For more than a decade, he has made two number three washtubs of it each year for a community feast/fundraiser.) "Now for dessert. Ain't choo glad we got good ol' pecans, peaches, apples, punkins, an' buttermilk here in Texas for our pies? Up in Minnesota an' Michigan, they gotta eat rhubarb. They got rhubarb, we got rebar an' barb wahr," he chuckled. "If you're extry nice to me, I might eben try my hand at a chock'lit or lemon pie with lots o' calf slobbers piled on top. Makes me hongry jist thankin' about it."

I suddenly had visions of the disaster area my kitchen became when Mel was in the throes of holiday cooking last year. I thought I was in a barbecue joint, with so many hulls and particles on the floor. There was a fine layer of flour, powdered sugar, poultry seasoning and cayenne pepper as far as the eye could see; icky, sticky drips and circles on every surface; and mountains of wadded up paper towels, damp dish towels, and soiled potholders, not to speak of bowls, pots and pans. Had to throw away my burner bibs and rings and start all over again. And the refrigerator—well, we won't even go there.

"Honey, I've got an idea. Why don't we go out for Thanksgiving this year? Less mess and less stress, and we wouldn't have all that leftover food to put up afterwards," I suggested.

"Whut," Mel roared, "an' let somebody else have all the fun?"