I don't really recall Thanksgivings of my childhood. We always sat down for meals as a family and on Sunday extended family came and we had wonderful food beyond our normal weekday meals. So maybe that is why the holidays blur in memory. Because there wasn't just a few special meals a year, there were many.
I have wonderful food memories. I come from a family of cooks. Not chefs, just good down to earth cooks. Everyone could make the basics and some of us have our specialties that get passed on to younger generations. My aunt Catherine and her fried apple pies, my mama's carrot cake, my brother's cheesy taters to name a few. Everyone, male and female in my family cooks. My nephew hosts the family dinners now and he smokes pork and cooks the cheesy taters. My niece does the ham. I bring corn pudding or add in my mother in law's scalloped pineapple.
But these gatherings and even Thanksgiving are about more than food. It's about family. About history. About telling the stories handed down over time and adding a few new ones. It's oral history. Telling our tales, our jokes, telling our lives.
It's about being thankful that I have come from such a family, rich in love and words.