Thursday, November 5, 2015

The Bless*ed Dressing

By Patricia White
     
     With the patio door cracked open, I could feel the cool evening breeze as I waited anxiously for my hubby to get home from work. Sitting in my favorite spot, in the corner of our brown leather sofa, I was sipping a glass of Cab and working a crossword when my husband walked in. He had a big smile on his face and gave me his usual, sweet, hello kiss.
     “How was work?” I asked. 
     “Fine. The Thanksgiving Feast is coming up the end of next week and Tammy asked me if Pat would make the cornbread dressing.”
     I looked up from my crossword puzzle and said, “Pat who?”
    “Pat, you. You’ve spoiled them, they love your dressing," he said

     Because I was working last year, Tammy had to order dressing from the building deli and no one liked it. It was dry and had too much sage. He said that he told Tammy he was sure I’d be happy to make it. I bit my tongue, I was not happy, or flattered or thankful.
“Well, I was hoping to send the rolls and butter this year, but I’ll do that for you.  By the way, is everyone    preparing a dish?”
“No,” he said. “Those who don’t cook gave Tammy ten dollars to buy stuff.” I headed for my purse and offered him a twenty.  He looked hurt. 
     “It was a joke,” I said.  “Of course I will make the dressing.” 
 He volunteered to shop for all the ingredients and to chop up all the veggies for me in advance.
That little piggy went to market.

     A few days after he volunteered my services for this culinary undertaking, I woke up one morning and my right leg wasnt working.  The bottom half of my leg went one way and my knee went the other. There was no explaining the bum knee, just untimely bad luck; maybe it was good luck with the dressing thing.  I thought for a second I was off the hook. But I’m not one for making excuses and I did have my CVS animal-print cane, and at worst, Mama’s walker was in the storage closet.

     After trying to walk with a cane unsuccessfully for several days, I saw the Doctor and sadly accepted the news that I had bad joint strain and had to stay off the knee….if I could.  Rest and ice. That was two days before the gargantuan task of making my better than store bought dressing for thirty something of the dearest people in my husbands office.  I was also to be the delivery girl and my timing had to be perfect.  Somehow I had to get that twenty-pound pan of hot dressing to the truck if I had to tie a rope around the handle and pull it out there.
”I’ll huff and I’ll puff……………
 
     The day before the feast, I made the cornbread, sautéed all the veggies, mixed it all up with my special secret ingredients and dumped it into the big pan with the handles and shoved it into the fridge. Next day I had only to bake and transport it. Just as I got the kitchen all cleaned up, standing on my good leg, the bad leg propped on a footstool, the phone rang. It was hubby. Now, they wanted a big bowl of my delicious gravy to go with the dressing.  I guessed that next they would want me to dress up in a uniform and serve. I was injured, my leg was getting no better and I was not warming up to this kitchen frolic. I was having un-Christian-like thoughts.

     As I rolled over in bed the next morning, the day of the feast, I had a burning pain up under my left wing (Yes, I have wings). I was sure it was a pulled muscle from pulling myself up and down with my old flabby arms.  This was becoming a nightmare. I had dressing to bake, gravy to make and somehow load it all into the truck with only half of my mojo working and now, a busted wing.  I just wanted to cry, but I pretended to be better as I walked my hubby to his car, like I did every day. I blew him a kiss as he drove off into the blue-sky morning. He offered to stay but I insisted it was no biggie.
     “See you at 11:00.”  I mouthed, with a tear in my eye, as he backed out of the carport.

    The fridge was opposite the oven so transferring the dressing was not too taxing.  The Angels were hovering over me. Mama must have sent them down. I could feel a warm presence. After a short while, a wonderful aroma was wafting from the oven and I was just about done with the gravy when the phone rang. It was hubby.  He said he would need our electric knife and asked me to throw it into the box.
     “What box?” I asked.
     “Well, the hot gravy should be in a box so it doesnt spill in the truck.”
     “Of course, why didnt I think of that?” I said sarcastically. Where in the hail was I going to get a friggin box?
     “Hold on,” I said, as I switched the phone to speaker and laid it on the counter.
     I squatted on one leg to dig the electric knife handle from out of the back of the kitchen cabinet. I finally reached it just as I dropped my cane. I fell to the floor and screamed. I shouted toward the phone.
     “I’m OK. Baby got back, just not enough to soften that fall.”

      I silently cursed everyone on the tenth floor of One Riverway as I pulled myself up off the kitchen floor, fished the knife blades out of the drawer and threw everything on the countertop. I remembered there was an empty wine box in the dining room from last night’s wine run.  The mail lady was peering into the dining room window. What the hail was she looking at? I guess she’s heard me scream.  I was breathing heavily when I finally picked up the phone.  
     “OK, its all in the box.” I said.
     “Are you OK?”
     “Yes, I’m fine.”
     “Try to be here by 11:15.” He said sweetly.
     “OK, I’ll do my best.”
     “If you need me, I can come home and get all that stuff.” 
     “No problem, I’m good,” I said. (I’ve had four children, two with no anesthetic, I got this).
 
     As I reached over the counter to hang up the phone, I knocked half a box of Swansons chicken broth off the counter and all over the floor and my jammies.“Sorry, Angels, I know I need my mouth washed out with soap.” I wiggled out of my jammie bottoms and dropped them on top of the mess on the floor, hoping to sop some of the broth.  Last thing I needed was to slip and fall. Now that my pants were off, I could see that my knee was swelling more. I would foot-mop the floor when I got home.
This little piggy was mad at all the little piggies in her husband’s office.

      I crawled up the stairs to take a hot bath and dress for the epic delivery of what was becoming the Bless*ed dressing. I put on fresh jeans, a really cute top, silver turkey earrings, make up, extra mascara and teased up my hair just in case Eye Witness News was there or someone from the office insisted that I come up and share this pre-Thanksgiving bounty. No pitiful looking Patty here. 
Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

     When all the food was at the perfect temperature I started to work my plan for getting it all into the truck.  I rolled the dressing to the truck on the desk chair, then the box with my delicious daayum gravy and serving tools and slammed the door shut. Then I called hubby.
     “Im rolling and will call you when I get close to the office.”
     “Thank you, baby,” he said. “You’re the best.”

      I10 was like a log jam. A long funeral procession was in the right lane and someone was moving a house down the other two open lanes.  I would not make it by 11:15. As I pedaled my SUV down I10, more than frustration was setting in. I had full blown road rage and a temporary case of Tourette’s.  I was starting to hope lunch would be over by the time I got there with the best part. Some twisted part of me said they didnt deserve my dressing.  When I was finally able to merge onto 610, it looked for a minute like the Woodway Exit was blocked off. 
“Oh look, a makeshift exit,” I shouted to no one. “Yee Haw for the office, I will make it with the Bless*ed dressing.” I called Hubby to let him know the eagle would land in five minutes.

     Hubby met me at the car and said I wasnt late; everyone was upstairs sipping wine, eating hors doeuvres and having fun.  He removed the dressing from the back of the vehicle and the box with the gravy and electric knife parts and placed it all on a small dolly.  He thanked me and gave me a quick kiss.
     “No problem, Sweetheart, just be sure to tell Santa Clause I was a good girl this year.”

      He laughed as he hurried off with my epicurean delight. He was so proud I’d made the dressing. I didnt really want to go to the party.  Eye Witness News wasnt there either. All my fluffing was for nothing. I started the truck and headed straight for Chico’s to shop for a beautiful new outfit I so deserved.
This little piggy did not cry wee wee wee all the way home.

     Back home, mid-afternoon, the phone rang.  It was Hubby.
     “The dressing was a hit,” he said. “They ate every morsel of it.”
     “Good,” I said. “I am here to serve.”
     He said he just had to call to tell me how delicious it was and that it was a good thing he didnt need the electric knife.
     “Why,” I asked?
     “When I reached into the box for the electric knife, ­­­­ I found the top of the hand mixer and two electric knife blades. But, it’s OK, someone brought a knife,” He said. How thoughtful, I thought.
     “So whats the problem?” I asked. “Cant an engineer work those electric knife blades with the mixer top?”  He laughed. How could I have been so discombobulated?  What knee, what wing pain? Only another Super Woman would understand.  We laughed and said the usual I love yous and hung up.
 
     The following year, the office Thanksgiving feast was catered and this wicked witch spent the holidays packing her pots and pans for a move to a new retirement community where no one outside of my beloved family has ever tasted my “better than store bought” dressing…….and probably never will.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, Y’all!!!