A nugget for your “thankful” heart

“Thanks For the Giving“

 By: Debbie Necessary Gibson/Frogita

The china cabinet lock was obstinate. Too much of a tug and there was danger of toppling the whole thing over. Too small a tug, and there would be no entry. Isabelle Guthrie laid one hand against the side of the cabinet, and quickly jerked the door open. The musty smell of long-housed and infrequently-used dishes crept up her nostrils. A shame that fine china had to be kept behind glass until company came knocking. Perhaps this year she would not put the dishes back in the cabinet. She would keep them out, and enjoy them each day.

She carried the dishes carefully to the sink, and began to gently wash each one with the care that it deserved. These had been her grandmother’s dishes, brought from Germany in a wooden crate. Packed amid shredded papers, the dishes had survived two World Wars, seven children, fourteen grandchildren, and had been the resting place for countless slices of turkey, ham, and every side dish imaginable. Special dishes, special food, special people. That was the recipe for today.

The sun beamed down on the windowsill as she washed. Closing her eyes, she bent across the sink, and stuck her face into the fingers of light streaming through the window. Warmth traveled from behind her closed eyes, and wound its way through her aging bones following a downward path until it reached her toes. It was good to be alive. It was good to love life, and it was good to have company coming.

Isabelle was a notorious cook. She knew the ways to coax the juices of a turkey to the surface, and then send them back into the stringy tougher bits. She had hauled her large pressure canner from the basement, and stuck the twenty-five pound bird, that had been brined overnight, into the cooker. Adding enough water to keep it from sticking, and layering sliced onions and whole celery stalks around it, she broke off fresh sage, parsley, thyme, and rosemary and tenderly laid them in the water. She always used herbs and spices, a signature touch perhaps, but more than that really. She believed in the power of the earth to heal, and the herbs turned her food offering into a magical edible. Rosemary brought youth, protection, love and lust. Sage invoked wisdom, wishes, and immortality. Thyme summoned health, courage, and purification. Parsley, bundled and tied with a red string, would cause festivity to sit at the table beside them today.

She sealed the lid, set the heat to medium high, and waited to hear the sound of the bird being tenderized. This step did not take long, but it assured with certainty that the herbs would be infused into the meat, and every bite would be succulent and juicy. No one knew her secret, for the bird would find its way into a roasting pan and be finished in the oven. Buried underneath stuffing made from two-day old biscuits, cornbread, broth, more herbs and a very secret teaspoon or two of sausage seasoning, it made for a strange presentation at the table. It came looking like a mountain of stuffing, but dig a little deeper, and they always did, the tender turkey would yield from the bone, and the cry would go up from the table, ” I don’t know how you do it, Isabelle, but this is the best thing I ever put in my mouth!” She would smile, and say,” Thank you, would you pass me the mashed potatoes, please?”

Her only dilemma each year was an agonizing one. Whom would she invite? There were so many she loved, family, friends, neighbors and acquaintances. But the table in the dining room would only seat eight, and unless she stood and took her meal, that meant seven invited guests. Of course her husband and only son would be there, and the one and only cherub of her life, her granddaughter. That would leave four invitations to extend to others. She had thought long and hard about the choice this year, she was growing older, and it had suddenly become paramount to do only the things she wanted to do, with whomever she wanted to do them, and to do those things in such a way that they would be remembered long after she was gone. So she had chosen.

Earl Baker had been a friend to Isabelle since they were in high school. Earl had opened her heart to the world of books, and then laid in her lap the subsequent power that books held to instruct and transport a soul from where they were, to where they wanted to be. Earl was a man of few words, spoken words that is, but he was a scholar of immense depth, and he could, if prompted, talk about any subject with clarity and certainty. He was enchanting and wise. She would seat him at the end of the table next to her husband. Together they would be love and wisdom manifest.

Phyllis Hayden would also come. She had been Isabelle’s hairdresser through countless seasons when blond went brown, and brown went gray, and grey stubbornly refused to be anything else than gray. Phyllis had been able to wash away Isabelle’s cares on a weekly basis. You could come into the shop weary and disgusted, but you left feeling better, walking like a young thing down the street, and a little peacock-proud when you reviewed the results in the rearview mirror. There was nothing like a new “do” to perk up an old girl.

Next, she had invited Teeny Williams. Teeny was her real name, a name which had caused her pain. Teeny weighed nearly two-hundred and fifty pounds, and it seemed a cruel joke, master-minded by the universe, to have to walk up to strangers and say, “Hello, my name is Teeny.” One thing about it though, Isabelle had been shown by her friend that if the fates dole you out a hand, and you come up wanting, you just suck it up and make the best of it. Teeny had tried to be teeny, and it had never worked. So one day she announced to Isabelle, ” I’m just going to love me, every damn inch of me, and I’m going to live well, make love like a skinny girl, and laugh till my ass shakes.” They laughed that day, until their sides ached, and Teeny got up from the couch, and looked behind her and said, ” Damn, Isabelle, I think I just laughed my ass off,” and they collapsed again in a fit of hysteria till the mascara ran, and all they could say was, “Whew, WHEW, whew!,” One glance, and it all began all over again.

Isabelle had the most difficult time deciding who would occupy the last available chair at the table. She had made some new friends this year, and one of them was a little man she had met at the soup kitchen where she volunteered. Matthew Turney loved her homemade chicken noodle soup, and always asked for any leftovers, so he could take them to his cat. He loved that cat. It’s name was Twokeys. She had asked him one day, as she refilled his bowl, where he came up with the name. He had hesitated, but then, upon looking into her eyes, he realized that she did indeed want to know, so he told her. ” The door to my heart has only been opened twice, once by the woman I married and lived with for forty-four years, and once by this damn cat who found me after her death. She was the first key, and he was the second. That’s why I call him Twokeys.”

Isabelle remembered how she felt that day, how her own existence seemed so full and rich in comparison. How a twinge of guilt crawled down her spine, that there had been many keys placed in the lock of her heart, opening it over and over to the wonders of love. She said nothing that day in response to his explanation, but she had sought him out each time she was scheduled to cook for the soup kitchen, and they had become friends. She even cooked extra food, so Twokeys could have his share.

With the invitations accepted, the dishes washed, and the food filling the kitchen with heady aromas, she knew she had chosen correctly. She knew this would be a Thanksgiving to remember.

The yeast rolls were rising on the counter top under the dishtowels, the cranberry Jell-o mold had been made last night, and it had gelled and looked perfectly wobbly in its mold. It was her favorite thing to eat. Cranberries, oranges, walnuts, apples, and red grapes, all ground together and laid into a viscous mix of cherry Jell-o, left overnight to macerate and marry each other. It was a taste that rivaled a first kiss. She checked the green beans, and looked at the clock, realizing that she had to dress. Company was coming.

A black velvet dress with matching shoes, and a scarf, draped across one shoulder and thrown serendipitously across the other shoulder, she smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She had found the scarf at the Salvation Army Thrift store. Autumn leaves, of red, gold, brown, and tawny yellow spilled across her shoulders and lit her face from underneath. Majesty for a dollar. She lightly spritzed herself with her favorite cologne, placed the back on her earring, and the doorbell rang.

Coats found a resting place on the hall tree and Isabelle shut the door, kicking the draft dodger tight against the bottom to seal out the chill, and seal in the merriment. Thanksgiving rose in Isabelle’s heart. The company would be as good as the food.

“I would like to ask the blessing this year,” said Isabelle as she stood at the head of the table. Looking around at those she loved, and being met with nodding approval and smiles, she began. ” I am thankful today for friends of heart, and for family tied to me by soul ribbons. For kinship and fellowship, for small things made large by grace and patience. For tender compassion and loving-kindness, I offer thanks. For the gifts of life, housed in the flesh of others, I offer my utmost thanksgiving, for it is by these gifts that I have been made a rich woman. Let me not forget to offer thanks each day for the gifting that has been done to me daily. Let every day be a thanks-for-the-giving day. Amen.”

Knives clanked against plates, rolls were passed, and everyone scooped up their fill of Isabelle’s kitchen creations. “Ah, Isabelle, I have no idea how you do it, how every year you take a tough old bird, and some dried-out biscuits and corn bread and work such magic!” her husband spoke from his captain’s chair at the end of the table. “Divine, simply divine,” Teeny said as she closed her eyes, savoring a hot roll oozing with butter. Isabelle thought to herself that Teeny looked as though she was somewhere far away, in some raptured moment of genuine pleasure.

It made her happy to feed people. Food was, after all, fellowship, and every worthwhile southern gathering had food. Isabelle just smiled and thought to herself that the ability to cook would always insure her an opportunity to gather those she loved and fill them up with love.

The flames licked the logs in the fireplace, crackling and sending smoke spiraling up the chimney. Contentment danced in the eyes of those present. Conversation swirled around the room, and time passed… too quickly.

One by one, coats were gathered, kisses offered, and good-byes said. Isabelle carried the dishes back to the sink. “I do believe that everyone had a wonderful time. I feel so blessed to have such wonderful friends and family. There couldn’t be a luckier woman than I am. It was magical, wasn’t it?” she asked her husband.

She waited for his response as she dried her hands on the dishtowel. Turning to the dining room door, she straightened her apron, and brushed her hands down its front. “Don’t you think so, darling?” “Memorable, truly memorable,” she spoke aloud. As she eased herself into the dining room chair, she glanced around the room, remembering the blessing she had offered to those at the table that day. How sweet and intimate the gathering was, and how touched she was to be connected to each of them.

Teeny had died fourteen years earlier from complications of diabetes, a long and arduous leaving. Isabelle had sat with her friend countless days, as the dialysis machine had purred beside them. Earl Baker had passed from this world to the next with a copy of Gibran’s Sand and Foam in his lap, and a smile on his face. Phyllis Haden had been washing the cares of a client down the drain and just took a breath and left. Matthew Turney had been found under a bridge on the coldest night of January 1997. When the police found him, they commented that some people were too ignorant to seek help when they needed it. As they moved his frozen body to the ambulance, one of the rescue workers had seen his chest move, and thought he might be alive. Unzipping his tattered coat they were greeted with the sight of one cat, named Twokeys, curled up on the chest of his master, warm, with green eyes glowing. Twokeys offered a soft mew, and laid his head back down on Matthew Turney’s chest. Her husband, son, and only grandchild had been on their way home with a Christmas tree, she had been waiting and checking her watch as darkness fell. Life had never prepared her for the moment the doorbell rang and she opened the door, expecting her loved ones, but rather found herself staring into the mouth a state police officer who kept trying to say, with great difficulty, that there had been an accident. ” No Ma’am, no other vehicles, they just slid off the road at the top of Brumley Mountain. They had a tree attached to the top of the car. Ma’am, do I need to call someone? Do you need to see a doctor? Ma’am?”

One by one they had moved away. One by one, she had stayed. Isabelle Guthrie knew love with all of its joys and sorrows. She had meant every word of the blessing she had spoken earlier,

” I am thankful today for friends of heart, and for family tied to me by soul ribbons. For kinship and fellowship, for small things made large by grace and patience. For tender compassion and loving-kindness I offer thanks. For the gifts of life housed in the flesh of others, I offer my utmost thanksgiving, for it is by these gifts that I have been made a rich woman. Let me not forget to offer thanks each day for the gifting that has been done to me daily. Let every day be a thanks-for-the-giving day. Amen.”

She sighed as she pushed up from the chair. “Here you go Twokeys, a big nice piece of turkey…. just for you. You’re such good company to me.” Turning out the dining rooms lights, she began the walk up the thirteen stairs to her bedroom.

“It was such a lovely day, I wonder who will be here next year?”