The Same Stories We’ve Told [and a recipe for cranberry sauce with pomegranate + orange]
My alarm goes off just after 5am—and a few times after that since I can't seem to wake up without hitting snooze. My husband and I slept in the basement, in the room with the lime green carpet and wood paneling. It feels like yesterday that an ironing board, sewing patterns, and extra fabric sat where the bed now is. I can almost see my mom hovered over her sewing machine working on a dress or fixing a hem. This morning, though, she rests in her bedroom upstairs. I throw my feet over the side of the guest bed, fumble past the couch, and make my way up the steps.
We have to get the turkey in the oven early. A turkey for over twenty of us will take all day to cook, and somehow I got put on poultry-roasting duty despite having the least amount of experience as the youngest in my family. I walk into a kitchen bustling with activity. My aunt and sister are in full cooking mode. I’m relieved to find they’ve already put the turkey in the oven, and my habit of hitting snooze hasn’t put the meal behind schedule. My brother prepped the other bird for the deep fryer, and I’ve got a little time to sit before cooking the side dishes. I pour a mugful of coffee instead.
The day is full of chaos and family, kids laughing and dinner cooking. Everyone once in a while, my mom steps out from her bedroom to check on things. We try not to ask her too many questions. Even though she’s not physically helping much, the busyness of the day exhausts her. Everything exhausts her in those final months. But we want this meal to be just like the ones Mom always made. We know full well she’ll never make it again.
Read the rest of the essay and get the recipe at Coffee + Crumbs!
Read the full essay and get the recipe at Coffee + Crumbs.
