Thanksgiving On The Bayou

Granny, who much preferred cuddling a cute puppy to making a pot roast.

My Granny wasn't the best of cooks - although I always liked her cooking. But, then, I like my meatloaf slightly burned. The only time I turned up my nose at her cooking was the time she made rice from a box to impress her sister, Aunt Pearl. I'm not really into fancy food.

Great Aunt Pearl, who apparently liked her rice fancy.

To this day, I have to have Granny's oyster dressing at least once a year. The directions go something like this: "Rice, oysters, chicken livers, celery and onions (if desired). Cook and mix together." It's fabulous and really, really easy to make, which probably was the attraction.

Cooking wasn't really Granny's thing. She'd rather garden, read or watch her stories. Oh, how she loved her stories (soap operas for those of you without story-loving grandmas).

Granny loved the holidays. 

I like to read as well. I've also inherited her love for the holidays. I'm a sucker for them. I can remember helping set out her tabletop manger and ceramic Christmas tree. Just out of reach in my memory is some sort of ladder that I was fascinated with as a child. I think it had elves on it and they were trying to string lights. On Christmas Eve, we'd walk down the street to Midnight Mass at the little Catholic church in Gibson.

This year, my mom told me the story of her first Thanksgiving. She remembers it because she was 9 at the time.

Granny, my mom and the rest of that side of the family are Cajun. One hundred percent Cajun. No DNA testing needed to figure out that lineage. Their ancestors immigrated to Nova Scotia from France, got the boot by the English, went back to France and eventually set sail for Louisiana. My granny used to tell a story about the voyage from France to Louisiana. The ship sailed in 1785. Granny was born in 1913. And she talked about that voyage like it was a cruise she took as a child. In other words, she was a sixth-generation American with one foot planted firmly back in France. Granny's mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and great-great grandmother may have been born in Louisiana, but she spoke French as her first language. Her life revolved around Cajun French and the Catholic Church, not the Founding Fathers.

We're Granny's first four children. Oui, we speak French. Doesn't everyone?

But back to Thanksgiving in Bayou L'Ourse (outside Morgan City) circa 1960-something. Granny got her first television set the year my mother entered fourth grade. Soon, Granny learned about a publication called "TV Guide" and got herself a subscription to that. It was in "TV Guide" that she read about the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I don't know who Cara Williams is, but this issue of TV Guide brought us Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving morning, Granny woke my Aunt Marilyn and my mom and settled them in front of the television. She told them they were going to watch a parade while she worked in the kitchen.

At some point, my mother wandered into the kitchen and asked what in the world was going on. It wasn't even 10 o'clock, and Granny was festooning a ham with pineapples and cherries. I'd like to imagine she'd already made the oyster dressing.

Granny explained that they were celebrating Thanksigiving. "It's not really our holiday," she said. "But we're celebrating it anyway."

We've been celebrating Thanksgiving ever since. We've even taken the big leap of transitioning to a turkey for the main course.

Granddaddy, chocolate pie and vodka.

My granddaddy wants a chocolate pie.

Let me explain something to you about Granddaddy. He let me watch "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and "Annie" EVERY weekend when I was a child. Every. Single. Weekend. Can you imagine how absolutely annoying that was? Songs. Dancing. Orphans. Gene Wilder in a purple top hat. If memory serves me well, my sister, cousins and I sang along and danced in front of the television set while Granddaddy sat on the couch reading his "Wall Street Journal" through every viewing. So he's getting his chocolate pie.

Granddaddy had four granddaughters, and I believe he was present for the births of all of us. He may have missed my sister Linda's birth, but it's a 2-hour drive from Houma to Baton Rouge. And it was the middle of the night. So he can be excused for that. He was there in spirit (and who knows, he may have been there. I'm not recording this for the historical record so - while I could call my mother and ask - I'm not going to call my mother and ask).

I used to get up early in the morning and make canned biscuits with my grandfather. And by early, I mean early. He gets up at dawn. My cousin Aimee also learned that getting-up-at-dawn trick for a little quality time with Granddaddy. They'd lace up their sneakers and go running together. I also used to help Granddaddy in the garage when I was little. He had a closet of jumpsuits and he could always be found tinkering with the cars on a Saturday morning.

I don't remember what conversations we had on those Saturday mornings. Quality time is about just being there, and Granddaddy has always been there.

I was my grandfather's first grandchild, and I believe he was all of 42 when I was born. Excuse me while I breathe into a paper bag after processing that fact. OK, I'm back. For the longest time, there was a flock of bird stickers on the sliding glass door at my grandparents' house. They seemed a bit more whimsical then my grandparents are so I finally questioned their origin. Granddaddy explained that he put them there so I would know not to run into the glass door as a small child. After accepting that I must have been the dumbest small child ever, it occurred to me how sweet a gesture that was (Although, really? Did I run into the sliding glass door more than once? Was this a weekly occurrence?)

Recently, my cousin Paula remembered all the times Granddaddy let her style his hair. Apparently rollers were sometimes involved. He also was game for tea parties. Listening to this, my grandmother said, "You know your granddaddy lives for his kids and grandkids." And I did know that. No one worries more about our health, cars, jobs, etc. than Granddaddy.

As I said: He's getting his chocolate pie. Apparently the man's been hinting strongly about wanting a chocolate pie for MONTHS, and no one's done anything about it. OK, it might have been days, but still ... no chocolate pie!

The inspiration for the chocolate pie is my great-grandmother. That woman could cook. Unfortunately, she also liked to give you a recipe and leave out a few key ingredients. Ah, that competitive streak runs deep. So we try to recreate what came out of her kitchen based on my grandfather's descriptions and his cousin Dorothy Jean's help. Dorothy Jean's mother and my great-grandmother used to cook together.

All my grandfather remembers about the chocolate pie is that the crust was made with lard. This is not surprising given that he grew up on a cattle farm. I, on the other hand, do not have cows grazing in my back yard. There's just Ava the cat, and she brings absolutely nothing to the table except a never-quenched longing for kitty treats. Preferably the crunchy kind.

So I did a little internet research, and discovered cooks raving about using lard for their pie crusts. Then I read this comment from Lillian in Maine: "I use vodka instead of water." And I wondered if Lillian is sampling the vodka before she adds it to the pie crust. Lard, I can process (and buy, as it would turn out, on the internet). But vodka?

Then I did a little more internet research and realized Lillian from Maine isn't quite as batty as I thought. Cook's Illustrated has actually researched this. http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2007/11/cooks-illustrated-foolproof-pie-dough-recipe.html. Vodka is something of a secret ingredient.

I don't imagine that my great-grandmother used vodka. Plus, my grandfather is Baptist and doesn't drink. So I'll probably be leaving out the vodka. But I will be making that chocolate pie. Because Granddaddy - like Willy Wonka - makes the world good.