Person on the Page

1

According to one of our family legends, one winter during the Depression my maternal grandmother fed her nine children nothing but turnips. One of her uncles, a farmer, gave them to her, fearing that otherwise her family would starve. He’d grown them to feed to his pigs. As adults, all of her children vowed never to eat turnips again, except my mother. She swore she could cook them so that anyone would like them—slow-roasted in butter with a dusting of sugar.  

2

My grandmother called her homemade pickles bread and butter. I was allowed to eat as many as I wanted as long as I ate them with butterbread. Sweet, with a sting of mustard, whisper of clove, ginger, and bay—so many flavors for my six-year-old palate to learn. The bread would prevent tummy ache, she said. She served them them in an old china cup painted with yellow roses, a chip on its gold-rimmed lip.

3

When I was twelve, Mother and I went to New York City to visit my cousin the actor. We stayed in a fancy hotel for women only, where I first tasted vichyssoise and French onion soup. My cousin invited us to lunch at his Bowery loft apartment—all artwork and space and light. He served us a salad of beet greens. Mother said she didn’t know that they could be eaten uncooked. He served them with a vinaigrette that tasted like plums and sage. 

4

After my father died, Mother gave up trying to keep a turkey moist. We gave our thanks at Uncle Al’s house, where Aunt Sue put oysters in her stuffing. A teenage aspiring adult, I tried hard to forgive her. Emeril Lagasse taught me how to make the best stuffing. Now I’m old and I have my rules: no oysters, no fruit. I’ll trade you the turkey on my plate for the stuffing on yours. The meal is all about gratitude, I know. But it’s also about the stuffing.

5

I couldn’t help being a farmer. It just happened. A wise person, or maybe an angel, said to me, You’ll feel better after a juice fast. When Sarah came for a late-summer visit, I harvested kale, spinach, peppers, and cucumbers from my garden, and cut up a fresh pineapple from the grocery store. With my Champion 4000 Best-in-the-World masticator, I made juice. In the morning sitting on my back deck—slow breeze and burst of birdsong—we sipped it slowly as if it were wine. Sarah said, It tastes so clean.

6

When my children were little, we read the book Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins. I made potato latkes like the ones Hershel ate. I chopped dill and mixed it with sour cream. Recently a doctor told me, Now that you’re older avoid potatoes; carbohydrates are dangerous. As I hear these latkes crisping in the pan, I remember long ago my children, round-eyed, listening to the part of the story when Hershel outsmarts the King of the Goblins.

7

On my first Thanksgiving at Cream Puff Court, I forget how to stir and chop. Can’t smell sage or celery. Can’t find the oven. I can only sing. I learn new songs: Let Go ~ Let Someone Else ~ Not Alone Anymore ~ So This Is What Being Accepted as I Am Feels Like. The bird, the berries, the gravy appear on the table. The maker of the feast holds my chair for me. I am thankful. 

Thank you for reading!