A stuffing like no other
It was the day of my mom’s funeral in August, and it was time to leave for church when my kids came downstairs and confronted me.
“What about the stuffing?” Grace asked.
“Yeah,” said Cooper. “Grammy’s stuffing.”
It seemed like an odd, incongruous thing to be asking – even selfish – considering the day and all. We’d all be saying our final goodbyes to our mom and grandmother, and where should a favorite food fit into that?
“Who will make it now?”
Ah, Grammy’s stuffing. As I type this sentence I can see it there on the Thanksgiving table, all brown and crumbly. It’s unlike any other stuffing I’ve had. Probably unlike any you’ve had either.
It was her father’s recipe. It starts with stale white bread, put through a hand grinder that’s gripped to the counter with a vise. After that, the celery and onions go through, a workout for the biceps and the tear ducts. Then you add chopped walnuts. That mixture goes into a big frying pan with butter and salt and, I’m pretty sure, sage. Then you put that on a sheet pan and bake it in the oven.
What emerges is soft from the bread, savory from the onions and celery and crunchy from the walnuts. The stuffing does not clump together like that Stove Top boxed stuff; its components stay separate on your plate until you add the hot gravy, which then collates all of that into the perfect bite.
It’s a lot of work to make, but Grammy and my dad brought out the grinder for more than just Thanksgiving. We had the stuffing for Christmas and Easter and the occasional summertime feast. After my children had grown and flown, Grammy would set aside some of the stuffing and freeze it, so they’d have it when they did make it home. If I’d had any in my freezer, I’d have served it to my kids for breakfast that morning of the funeral.
Driving to the church with the kids, I thought about how I should have asked my mom to write down the recipe for the stuffing; I should have been there one of the last few times she made it, so I’d know. But there are foods that are baked into our lives – things that we enjoy and come to expect and even take for granted – and we don’t consider that one day the cook will be gone. And then what will we do?
I’m reminded of my own grandmother’s goulash, a Slovenian recipe of beef chunks and potatoes and onions – so many onions – in a thin broth tinged red with paprika. For the full effect, you smash the potatoes with your fork and scoop up the whole thing with a spoon. She’s been gone 20 years and I haven’t had that meal since. Again, I should have paid attention.
For a moment that morning of the funeral, my kids might have felt a bit selfish asking about the stuffing. But their worry about it was a reminder of Grammy’s place in their life, and one of the many reasons they’ll miss her. Their worry fit perfectly into the meaning and purpose of the day, and the sense of loss.
I will attempt the stuffing for Thanksgiving this year. The last time I visited my Dad, I asked for the grinder. I hope I know enough of the basics to get close to what she made for us all those many times.
We’ll have Grammy’s stuffing on the table this year, but my kids and I – all of us – know that nothing will be the same.