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?”
“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
wasn’t 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 husband’s 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 doesn’t
spill in the truck.”
“Of course, why didn’t 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, it’s
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 Swanson’s
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.
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.
“I’m
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 didn’t
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 wasn’t late; everyone was upstairs sipping wine, eating
hors d’oeuvres 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 didn’t really want to go to the party. Eye Witness News wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 what’s the problem?” I asked. “Can’t 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!!!
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