Muddy Footprints

“Make sure you tell Grandpa he doesn’t have to catch a turkey this year, because we have one in our freezer,” Chrissy says to me as we talk about what we like best about Thanksgiving.

Chrissy and Kaitlyn both agreed they like the turkey the best. And for the record, the ones I bake come from the grocery store.

The housecleaning is done as good as it will be this year. There are a few doors that will be shut - to hide the stray boxes leftover from the kitchen remodel that I haven’t the gumption to deal with.

More importantly, tonight I am relaxing with my little sweeties – savoring my Tuesday night with them while their mom is at class. We were sandwich artists tonight, the three of us up at the counter building ourselves each our own classic. After supper we got out our pencils and paper and wrote letters to Santa. After homework is done and we read a book or two, I’ll tuck them into their beds, listen to their prayers, and kiss them goodnight – sending them off to dream their sweet little dreams of Barbie houses, play makeup and Nintendo DS games.

While the house is quiet I think of all of us fretting to get everything on our lists done in time for Thanksgiving. I think of all the floors that are being scrubbed and vacuumed, and furniture being dusted. I think of all the trips to the grocery store for the special ingredients.

We clean and cook with love in our hearts for those we love the most.

And after the day is over, in much less time than it took to prepare, there will be muddy footprints on our freshly scrubbed floor, spilled gravy on the tablecloth, and half-full (or half-empty, depending on how you look at it) glasses of wine or punch scattered about the house. There will be loads of dishes to be washed and leftovers galore, jam-packed into the frig.

As you crash on the sofa after everyone is gone, let the muddy footprints be a sign that you have a family that loves you and loves to spend time with you.

I thank God for all the muddy footprints in my life.

This post was requested by a friend - who needed some inspiration as she gets ready for Thanksgiving. Enjoy!

The Secret Ingredient

My husband’s mother is mother to more than just him. She has six other children, a whole mess of grand and great-grandchildren, and has been married for over fifty years . Several years ago, she partnered with her husband running a 500 cow dairy farm in western Wisconsin. This brings me in a round-about way to the subject today.

First, I must elaborate a little more.

She has always cooked for a big family. She has always cooked for a table full of hired farm hands, plus her seven children and grand children. She cooked in quantity - seemingly effortlessly. On the farm, meat and potatoes were plentiful, a staple of the meal. She used a pressure cooker to tenderize less desirable cuts of meat. She served fresh vegetables from her garden. Yes, dinner was in the oven while she was milking cows.

My mother-in-law collects cookbooks. She cuts recipes out of magazines and newspapers. Her recipe cupboard is filled to the brim, the doors bursting at the seams – propped shut with a ruler slid between the pulls. My mother-in-law loves to get ideas from the recipes she collects.

She just doesn’t like to follow the recipes.

I remember one time there was an insurance salesman at the house. She offered him a slice of fresh peach pie. He loved it. He asked her for her recipe. She just laughed and changed the subject.

After he left, she told me that she added the morning’s leftover pancake batter in with the pie crust dough.

Yes, she adds this, and leaves that out. She doubles this and substitutes that. She doesn’t measure, she just knows.

And it all turns out. And even though we know this, we still ask her for her recipe. And she can’t give it to us, because she didn’t use one … exactly, anyway. But still we ask.

The subject today – the secret ingredient.

In preparing the turkey for our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to get the same delicious results that I’ve had eating turkey dinner that my mother-in-law has cooked. So I boldly asked her for her recipe, confident that whatever she told me would be good enough for me.

“I stuff the bird with chopped up carrots, onions and celery. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I must admit, it turned out delicious. But I didn’t write it down.

The next fall I called her again, pleading “Could you please give me that recipe again for turkey? I promise I’ll write it down this time.”

She is more than willing to share with me. “I stuff the bird with apples and dried apricots. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I finally figured it out. It really doesn’t matter how you cook it. As long as you use the secret ingredient, that is. Maple syrup.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage happens very gradually. It migrated in its entirety to me about five years ago.

When I was first married, which was in fact, ages ago, all I needed to do was show up for Thanksgiving Dinner at my mom and dad’s house. My grandmother was there, and her and my mom could be found bustling around getting that turkey ready for us to devour.

Gradually, and unbeknownst to me the rite of passage began.

Relish tray. “Could you bring a relish tray this year?” I could do that! After all, cutting up carrots and celery was virtually foolproof.

Jell-o. During the little-kids-under-my-feet years, the relish tray became my sister’s job and I was assigned jell-o. “Would you like to bring a bowl of jell-o this year?” Of course, I excitedly obliged. I had to go and buy a bowl first, though.

Scalloped corn. As the years flew by, I moved on to scalloped corn. This was my opportunity to try a few new recipes and really blossom in the creativeness category.

Pumpkin pie. My grandmother always brought the pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving Dinner. But after she passed away, Mom asked me “Would you bring the pumpkin pie this year?” I baked two pumpkin pies, thinking of Grandma as I checked to see if they were done, putting a knife into the center of each, making sure it came out clean.

As my mother grew older, somehow my sister and I just knew it was time.

Turkey time, that is.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage took place. Over the span of thirty years.

You will find me baking turkey again this Thanksgiving. And with my sister and brother's help, everything that goes along with it. Almost everything - except the jell-o.

My nineteen year old niece is bringing that.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.