Home for Thanksgiving

Mom gave me a warm smile. “Bill, would you like some more dressing?”

Earlier, I’d told her how much I liked her dressing. I hadn’t been able to eat it the year before, the only time in my childhood that I didn’t share Thanksgiving dinner with Mom.

When my parents’ marriage collapsed, I, along with my brother and two sisters, were part of the debris. Eventually, my father gained custody. We moved in with him, his new wife and a new brother and sister. But, we adapted.

My most difficult challenge was at mealtime. Tastes and textures alien to my young palate assaulted my tongue, and I complained. Food, however, was expensive, and I was expected to eat my share, like it or not.

Still, I looked forward to Thanksgiving dinner with turkey, rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy, along with my favorite. Dressing.

When the day finally arrived, we sat around the table and said a simple grace, then took serving after serving, but I knew what I wanted.  When the dressing arrived I didn’t hesitate. A big dollop in a corner of my plate and the bowl still held enough for seconds. I took a big bite, but my mouth refused to chew. I’d expected something similar to my mom’s dressing, but this was strange, radically different and my palate rebelled.

Fortunately, I’d learned my lesson about food complaints and I didn’t say a word. I even forced myself to eat all I’d taken. But I didn’t take seconds of this unusual dish. Cornbread dressing, I learned years later, and I never acquired a taste for it.

The next Thanksgiving found us back with my mother, her new husband and another new brother.

I held out my plate. “Thanks, Mom.” Even my mouth knew. I was home for Thanksgiving.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.