My mother passed away almost five years ago now.
She was a good cook, but she didn’t do much cooking in the last decade of her life. All of which is to say that it has been a long time since I had her Thanksgiving stuffing.
My mother made the stuffing the same way her mother made it—cubed, stale bread cooked with butter, onion, salt and black pepper in a cast iron skillet and then introduced into the bird.
It is a simple stuffing and it is glorious in its simplicity.
I don’t cook. I am notorious for not cooking. But I love to eat, and man I loved that stuffing.
I have talked about the stuffing so much and for so long, that this year a friend made it for me.
Can I tell you?
It was even better than I remembered it being.
And can I tell you?
Each bite of it made me want to put my head down on the table and weep.
That stuffing brought my mother into the room. It sat her at the table.
And oh, I was grateful.
I am grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving.

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