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don't tell her about the turkey
Nov. 26th, 2009 11:12 pmI will now share with you my favorite Thanksgiving story of ever. Ever.
My grandmother, as you know, grew up during the Great Depression. She operated a little differently than most folks did in the consume-and-dispose eighties. She'd rinse and reuse butter tubs, she'd save twisties from bread bags, she'd melt down little withered slivers of soap into a mysterious jar of soft soap that never hardened. (She took that trick to her grave, wish I'd known how she did that.)
The turkey on Thanksgiving was my mom's job, most of the time. After the day's demolition of the feast the remains all went to Grandma, who put them to good use. She'd strip every shred of meat from the bones, then put the carcass in a caldron-sized pot and make stock out of it. We'd have soup and sandwiches for weeks until nobody wanted to even think about turkey again -- but by then it was time for herring, so the turkey didn't seem so bad.
Well, most years we had soup and sandwiches. One year we didn't. Grandma did, and we didn't, and we never told her why.
Memory is funny. You don't remember a thing, you remember telling the story of the thing, to yourself or someone else. I know I was at school when this happened, although I can see it in my head as though I was there. I don't remember my mom telling me this, although I know she did. I just remember what I'd envisioned when she told me, and if I think about this I can see it happen, even though I never actually did.
( You see, what had happened was... )
My grandmother, as you know, grew up during the Great Depression. She operated a little differently than most folks did in the consume-and-dispose eighties. She'd rinse and reuse butter tubs, she'd save twisties from bread bags, she'd melt down little withered slivers of soap into a mysterious jar of soft soap that never hardened. (She took that trick to her grave, wish I'd known how she did that.)
The turkey on Thanksgiving was my mom's job, most of the time. After the day's demolition of the feast the remains all went to Grandma, who put them to good use. She'd strip every shred of meat from the bones, then put the carcass in a caldron-sized pot and make stock out of it. We'd have soup and sandwiches for weeks until nobody wanted to even think about turkey again -- but by then it was time for herring, so the turkey didn't seem so bad.
Well, most years we had soup and sandwiches. One year we didn't. Grandma did, and we didn't, and we never told her why.
Memory is funny. You don't remember a thing, you remember telling the story of the thing, to yourself or someone else. I know I was at school when this happened, although I can see it in my head as though I was there. I don't remember my mom telling me this, although I know she did. I just remember what I'd envisioned when she told me, and if I think about this I can see it happen, even though I never actually did.
( You see, what had happened was... )
