Right around November, sadness creeps into our family, a collective feeling of grief that acts as a shroud over our hearts and keeps most of the holiday joy at bay. The matriarch of our family, my grandmother, passed away three years ago, and her loss feels heavier when we begin planning for the big meals.
Every year, we looked forward to her giant spread. She made most of the typical items you’d expect and a few that all of the kids, and some adults, avoided. She’d spend hours in the kitchen, chopping and baking, yelling at the closest legal driver to run up to Brookshire’s for an ingredient she needed. My mother would be at her side, taking directions and some gentle verbal abuse like a champ. After two full days of preparations, dinner would be served and the house quiet for a few moments.
Her specialty was the gravy. We didn’t own a gravy boat big enough to hold the golden topping, so she would make it in a giant soup pot kept warm on the stove. The buffet line always backed up right at the end because everyone’s plate was smothered. When asked what she did to make it almost addictive, she’d just smile back and say, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” As a child, I was convinced it was magic that she was adding when we weren’t looking. It was the only logical explanation.
Courtesy Jess Delarosa
Family members from hours away would always show up, sometimes expected, usually unannounced, and there was always enough food to feed whoever graced our table. She would infuse love into that turkey, mixed with butter and herbs. She stirred in patience and understanding into the pecan pie.
When we were all full, the women would begin the cleanup as the men pulled out the dominoes and their guitars. Hours were spent around her kitchen table. We little ones would hear dominoes slamming and laughter from our pallets in the guest room. We couldn’t wait until we were old enough to join the fun.
As I grew older and began to make my own plate, I avoided the dreaded pea salad and loaded up on stuffing. One year, I ate so many rolls I couldn’t move for an hour, but it was worth it. The way she would smile at me as I cleaned the plate made the food feel special, like she put in all that work just for me to enjoy. She had that effect on everyone, child and adult alike.
Our meals look and feel very different now. The pea salad has been replaced with mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese is a new staple. I made Grandma green bean casserole one time, and she demanded it every year, twice a year. I followed the same recipe this year, but her presence was the ingredient we were all missing.
We don’t play dominoes after the meal or bust out the guitars. We’ve created new traditions like playing Demon, a card game similar to triple solitaire, or Scattegories. Before we dig in, we take turns sharing what we are grateful for. I always begin with my gratitude for our weird little family and pass to my husband. Music is still present in the cleanup. Now, Kesha and Hozier have replaced Elvis and Tanya Tucker. We laugh and poke fun at how silly and human we are while also making space for tears and memories.
Our table has grown longer as well. Every year we are honored with new friends who quickly become family. We continue to find the joy where we can, building community and love among those of us she left behind. I use her techniques to infuse her patience, understanding, and unconditional love into the potatoes, the beans, and the pie.
But there’s still grief in the gravy, and the ham has a hint of loss. We don’t deny the pain the holidays bring. We are learning to live without those we love the most and honor their memories through their traditions, their recipes, and the love they gave to us. It isn’t easy, but it is a necessary part of healing.
