My grandmother had been living with us for several months; she’d had several heart attacks and couldn’t live by herself, so we’d brought her from Minnesota to live with us. My two brothers and I still lived at home, so we could take care of her for a few days. “You’re gonna have to make Thanksgiving dinner for everyone,” Mom said. Besides my brothers a Grandma, one cousin would be there for dinner, too.

No problem! I grabbed a notepad and took notes while she gave me a crash course in stuffing-making and turkey-roasting. The pies were already baked, so that was no problem. I was an experienced cook, but I’d never roasted a turkey before. Mom said, “If you have any trouble, ask Grandma, she’ll tell you what to do.” I figured I’d be OK, but I tell ya, I had big shoes to fill; my Mom and Grandma are/were FIERCE in the kitchen, people.

Next day, I got up and rocked that dinner, pretty much by myself. I did it all: mashed taters, gravy, sweet potatoes, salad, dinner rolls, veggies, cranberries, the works! I did end up asking Grandma a few questions, mostly just to confirm what I thought was right, and she was very pleased to be consulted. She also insisted on peeling the potatoes and yams, and I let her, ’cause really, there’s no glamor in that job.

The funniest part of the day came when we tried to take the turkey out of the roasting pan and bag. It was so done and so moist, it was falling apart! My brother and cousin tried to use big spatulas and spoons, but it was obvious it would just explode the second they lifted it up. Desperate, my brother looked around, and spied a frying pan in the dish drainer rack. He grabbed it, slid it under the turkey, scooped it out all in one cohesive mass, and deposited it on the platter. Success!

Everything was timed perfectly, everything tasted great, and we ate ourselves silly. That was a great day. It was also my Grandma’s last Thanksgiving, so it’s an especially sweet memory now.