A Holiday Inheritance

Today is Thanksgiving in the United States of America. Many people will be sitting down to a meal with their loved ones, eating turkey, dressing, veggies, and other traditional dishes. Some people will be working, as a few career choices require. Others might be sitting at home alone trying to forget it’s a day of gathering together with others.

During my fire service career, I was part of that working group required to work on Thanksgiving. My holiday celebration consisted of a leftover plate prepared by my mom, waiting for me in the microwave, sometimes dropped off at my office. The kids would go with their dad to pop in at my parents’ home for my father’s never failing routine serving time of 12 noon. Afterwards they would head to their dad’s side of the family for the afternoon through the evening. They were double dippers on the Thanksgiving meal front, as many families do to keep the peace.

I would arrive home after a 12-hour shift that consisted of early morning heart attacks, a few mid-morning house fires caused by negligent cooks, afternoon stabbings, with a few pre-dinner MVA’s thrown into the mix. Holidays are the worst for emergency services. Every family grievance or issue gets escalated after the big meal and a few adult libations. Family arguments can sometimes sadly turn into violent endings that require police cars and ambulances.

When I was younger, we alternated spending holidays between my mom’s side of the family in Alabama, and my dad’s side in Louisiana.

In Alabama, our holiday dinner table would turn into a political hotbed of disagreements based off current events. However, the discussions always stayed somewhat civilized, with minimal yelling after dessert and the most offended person in the room standing abruptly, announcing the meal was over and it was time for everyone to leave. After hugs and thanks to the hosts, of course. It was Thanksgiving.

In Louisiana, dinner was always served at 12 noon. My grandfather would give the blessing, and we would all enjoy the meal. Afterwards, the leftovers were divvied up and that’s the moment when my mom would secretly switch out the expensive Honeybaked Ham with a generic spiral sliced ham she picked up at the local grocery store. We had one particular family member who wouldn’t contribute to the meal, yet always loaded up on the leftovers (even bringing their own to-go containers), particularly the expensive Honey baked Ham. My dad would always laugh his big belly laugh after everyone left, commenting about the Honey baked ham hidden in the fridge and the big switcheroo.

The nostalgia of the holiday season gives me pause to think of all those who used to gather around the table, and the Southern culinary delicacies that could be found only during those special moments. Appetizers of deviled eggs that would disappear immediately. A Louisiana fried turkey, that holiness of a Honeybaked Ham, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, a Waldorf Salad, hominy casserole (which only my dad and I would eat), chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes, and so many other carb-centric dishes. Dessert would be my Alabama grandmother’s chocolate pie and cookies or brownies made by the youngest family members. And how could I forget the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls?

I miss them all. I miss the food. I miss the loud, boisterous voices. I miss the laughter about the ham. I miss the hugs. As we grow older and lose more family members than we are gaining, the holidays have evolved into something else: A gratefulness for the love and the memories showered upon us by our loved ones.

Their traditions have become our inheritance, a legacy of abundant love, poignant memories, and delicious recipes. And Honey baked ham.