A Food Memoir by
L. J. Gouveia
As Thanksgivings become less traditional, and people branch out to other menus, I myself have followed suit. I’ve had a Mexican Thanksgiving, a Cajun one, and opted for roast chicken in a scaled-back feast for just four people. But the constant for me is cornbread dressing. To me, it just isn’t Thanksgiving or even officially holiday season without it. And it’s an indelible part of my becoming an adult.
We ate Thanksgiving fairly early in our family, having it closer to lunchtime than supper, so the day’s cooking started around daybreak. The men would gather for football in the den while the women would converge for the cooking Olympics in Meemaw’s small but cheery kitchen with the gleaming white range and slightly sloping linoleum floor. They had their predefined roles established over the years, and set about their tasks. The turkey was usually already in the oven when we got there.
Meemaw would start the dressing. First step: dice one good-sized yellow or white onion and three ribs of celery. That went into a saucepan with half a stick of butter and a splash of chicken stock, just enough to cover. Simmer for about an hour, because the one thing you do not want are crunchy vegetables. That’s why nobody lets Martha make it anymore. As it simmered, we set about other tasks, setting the table, starting other side dishes, bringing things out of the fridge and freezer. About halfway into the simmering, she’d make two pans of cornbread. She always insisted on Martha White cornbread (now known as Gladiola in some regions).
One year I remember one of the great aunts mentioned her nephew dating some woman they knew in town. “Ooh Lord no, she makes that ol’ white-bread dressin’!” Meemaw said, and they exchanged disgusted, knowing glances. Clearly that was even worse than using boxed haircolor. I never heard her name again. She probably lost the nephew’s love and might’ve even had to move.
“Lisa Jean, you only use yellow cornbread in dressin’,” she explained to me. I was twelve and being gently initiated into their circle. These grand old girls had finally agreed I was worthy. She plunked the two still-warm discs of cornbread into the same large amber glass bowl that would be washed out for fruit salad later, every year. She solemnly slid it across the table to me. “Now your job is one of the most important parts of makin’ the dressin’. You got to crumble up all this cornbread real fine. No big pieces. Like this.” She pinched off a golfball-sized chunk of cornbread and rolled it between her fingers until it was ground into a small mound of pale yellow crumbs.
And so ever since, that was my main task when we got to Meemaw’s. I crumbled the warm cornbread, occasionally sneaking a little bite as I marveled at those grand old girls, stirring, tasting, mixing, etc., all the while blithely discussing the world’s problems and solving them all, if only they were in charge, and telling family stories, laughing, gossiping, sometimes bickering, fussing. I learned early on they were the real seat of power and wisdom in the family. And knew all the dirt on everyone. Sometimes we’d sip wine or even a margarita as we stirred, crumbled, and gabbed. The men watching football and drinking beer never knew what they were missing out on, when the grand old girls were at their grandest.
When the celery and onion are simmered and tender, they get poured into the cornbread crumbs, along with some salt, pepper, sage, poultry seasoning, and four beaten eggs. Stir together very well, mixing in occasional splashes of chicken stock, until the consistency is like a thick pudding. Meemaw usually added several diced hardboiled eggs for some chunk and flavor. The one variation I’ve ever dared to make on her recipe is leaving them out of mine. One time I told her that, and after the briefest little pause, she told me she still loved me anyway.
That all goes into a greased baking dish or roasting pan to bake at 400° for about thirty minutes or until golden brown on top and a toothpick stuck in the center comes out clean, just like with cake. It’s really almost a soufflé.
For the giblet gravy she would put the bird’s innards and more diced hardboiled eggs in a saucepan with some stock. Organ meat is just gross to me, so my shameful Thanksgiving secret shortcut is to use plain chicken gravy dressed up with some stock and a big dollop of the dressing. I didn’t further test her love by confessing that one.
But for the most part I still make dressing and pie crust the way she taught me — even in her very same pots and pans I inherited, until a disastrous house fire in 2021.
Dressing and sweet potatoes are the only Thanksgiving dishes I ever make any other time of year, any time I crave a little downhome cooking or get to missing those grand old girls. One year, on a whim, I made a big plate of dressing and sweet potatoes for my birthday (in June), and Meemaw about laughed herself sick.
Another year, I co-hosted an “orphans” Thanksgiving for my husband and a few of his wayward musician friends. One was from the Chicago area and had never even heard of cornbread dressing. He’d grown up on the Midwestern white-bread kind. I didn’t tell him how reviled that was here. He nibbled hesitantly, then devoured three helpings and demanded the recipe. Later he told me he’d made it four times in the following week. He reminded me of a cat I once had who loved it so much and would eat it so fast it would get caked in his whiskers.
On what would be her last Thanksgiving, Meemaw entrusted all the pie making to me, and supervised the dressing as she held onto the sink to steady herself. Then later pronounced it just as good as any she ever made, right there in the den, in front of everyone. Even the football watchers looked up and raised their eyebrows. I was officially a grownup. I’m maybe not quite a grand old girl, maybe never will be, at least not as grand as they were, but it still means the world that she said it.
Whenever I take a bite of dressing, I can just sit with my eyes closed—smell it, taste it, and see a montage of so many Thanksgivings past and people passed. It’s one of those time-travel foods, and I’m transported back to Meemaw’s kitchen and for just a moment it’s like they were never really gone and the fire never happened and we’re about to have pie. Then I open my eyes and remember to be thankful for all of this and so much more.
I still make dressing. Even years when I visit someone else’s house for the big meal, I have to make at least a small pan of dressing at home. So far nobody has served white-bread dressing. I can’t say for sure about the haircolor, though.