My Grandma’s Thanksgiving Recipes Taught Me To Understand That Bitch
For my family, Thanksgiving was always a time of communion, of gratitude, and of worsening our hereditary TMJ by grinding our teeth while my grandmother berated us. As the mashed potatoes were passed and the gravy was poured, we all tried to focus on the deliciousness of the food, and not the rant about “getting those immigrants put back where they belong.” So I had mixed feelings when the old goat finally kicked it this year—that is until I learned I would be the recipient of her treasured recipe book of Thanksgiving dishes.
As I peruse the pages and read her spidery cursive, I’m reminded of more than 30 Thanksgivings. Unfortunately, I’m also reminded of her hitting me with a ruler when she caught me writing left-handed. However, her recipes have given me a greater understanding of the woman my father referred to as an “ignorant witch.”
Just boil em and mash em, what are you, French?
A little note at the end addressed specifically to me gave me an unexpected zing of excitement. She had thought of me! It read: “Jessica, I know these are your very favorite. I’ve watched you shovel them in. Cut the butter in half before your rear gets wider and you can’t attract a man.”
Sounds foreign. I don’t bother.
This one isn’t surprising from a woman who said drinking Irish Breakfast tea was treason, and only encouraged them to reproduce more.
Take last week’s leftover ground chuck
Blend it up with flour and milk and cook til thick
Throw in some mushrooms to fake out your vegetarian cousins – HA!
Grandmother’s gravy was as sturdy as an ox and as thick as the blood clot that finished her off. But I like to think her haphazard measurements were her way of teaching us that life can be unpredictable. Or she just couldn’t fucking cook. One of the two.
Grandmother’s Old-Fashioned Famous Stuffing, Passed Down from Great Great Great Grandmother Ellis Who Came on the Mayflower
Stouffer’s makes a good one
GODDAMN IT! I KNEW IT TASTED FAMILIAR!
Perfect Roasted Turkey
Honey, you couldn’t cook a turkey well if it showed up on your doorstep with instructions pinned to its severed neck. Bet you’re going to regret all those 99 cent “Best Grandmother” garbage cards you sent me all those years. You didn’t bother to give me any grandchildren, so I don’t see why I should bother to teach you how to cook.
You know what, I’m thinking we’ll go with more of a rotisserie feel for the turkey this year. And I know exactly what I’m going to use for kindling. Happy Thanksgiving, you dead old bitch.