Hopper Thanksgiving

Do you smell it sometimes, the aroma coming from momma’s cooking?  I remember the smell of chicken boiling and cornbread baking.  I can close my eyes and go back to that moment.  There is steam coming from the pots of green beans, purple-hulled peas, and turnip greens.  Steam from mamma’s culinary talents fogged the windows and escaped the house to fill the yard with an aroma that ascended into the heavens.  The smell of fried Irish taters and baked sweet taters make my mouth water in anticipation of dinner.

There is the smell of poultry seasoning as mama begins that delightful task of assembling chicken and dressing.  She crumbled the fresh baked cornbread, the leftover biscuits from breakfast, slices of “light (sandwich) bread”, and saltine crackers into a big blue pan.  She poured the boiled chicken broth into the bread mixture, sprinkled in the poultry seasoning, chopped in an onion, poured in a couple of raw eggs, and then seasoned it to taste.  Sometimes she would put in some cracked pecans.  She would try to slip in some celery ever once-in-a-while.  We did not like celery, so we kept a close eye on her to prevent that.

Every time she cooked dressing, we begged her not to cook it.  She said it was raw.  Now remember, everything she put in it was cooked except the raw eggs, which cooked in the boiling mixture.  When she baked it, it got too stiff.  We wanted it “raw” because it was a tad runny, a little loose.  It made it delicious.  We would dip from the pan before she put it in the oven.

When the moment of tantalization ended and the time of indulgence set to begin, we sat around the heavenly delights.  A feast fit for a king lay before us.  As we gathered around the table, anticipation of the seventh heaven of gastronomic feast tempted the mightiest of strong will and of seasoned faith.   Mamma’s culinary talents were tremendously tempting and sensationally satisfying.

Grace had to be offered.  Every time we sat around the table, we thanked God for the food He provided for us.  It was easy on these days, but the days of “goosy” gravy (a mixture of grease, flour, salt, and pepper) and biscuits it was a little harder to say thanks.  Had it not been for “goosy” gravy and biscuits, there would have been no food on the table.

Those are fond memories.  Daddy sat at the head of the table, and I sat at the other end.  My two brothers sat to daddy’s left and to his right were mama and my sister.  Gathered around the table we learned of God’s love and our love for one another.  What we dipped, we had to eat.  When we passed a bowl of food, it could not be intercepted.  It went directly to who asked for it.  We did not know the manners of Dear Heloise, but we did know manners according to rules of the Hoppers and the wrath of daddy.

I long to back and I go back home as often as I can, but that home exists only in my mind and on this piece of paper.  What I described will eventually fade with the passing of my memory and my trip to my heavenly home.  Thank God for memories.

When I call to remembrance the unfeigned faith that is in thee, which dwelt first in thy grandmother Lois, and thy mother Eunice; and I am persuaded that in thee also (2 Timothy 1:5 KJV).

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20 KJV).

And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, this is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me (Luke 22:19 KJV).

May God bless your time together.