She Always Forgot the Biscuits
A mind slowly extinguished, a holiday tradition, and an empty seat at the table.
She’d be sitting right there, across the table in the armless, high-back chair. Her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail that reached all the way down to the back of her knees, if she ever let it out.
She’d have rushed to the table just in time to scold one of the little ones for sneaking a spoonful of mashed potatoes before we all bowed our heads to say “grace.”
She’d sit for about three minutes, enough time to fill her plate and pour a small glass of White Zinfandel before she got up for the first of at least eight trips into the kitchen while everyone ate.
She’d come back to the table just long enough to be the only one to eat her Carrot Salad. My great grandmother loved that dish too, but she’s been gone for years now.
She’d start clearing plates before everyone was finished eating, but we’d let her do it anyway. There was plenty of food to eat later.
She’d shout, “Anybody want coffee?” before making a large pot regardless of the response.
She’d have the dishwasher loaded and running before the coffee even finished brewing.
She’d nibble on lukewarm appetizers — Swedish meatballs, tiny pieces of hot dogs in sauce, and celery with cream cheese and peanut butter — while the kids filed in and out of the kitchen asking when it was time for dessert.
She’d start laying pies and cakes and cookies on the dining room table because she knew how badly the kids wanted them.
She’d cut each one and dish slices onto paper plates with her bare fingers, licking them clean between each slice. When we were kids, we didn’t care. We didn’t even notice.
She’d sit down maybe one more time before the day was over and all the leftover turkey was chilling in the refrigerator.
She’d rub my belly and ask if I’d gained weight (I might have).
She’d yank my hat off my head and say, “What did you do to your hair?” rhetorically before giving me a hug.
She’d ask my sister if she had a new boyfriend, and then yell at my napping uncle to wake up.
She’d see football on the TV and ask us why we were watching “that horrible game.”
She’d say, “You should be watching baseball! The Phillies!” even though baseball season was long over.
She’d yell at the kids to stop jumping on the couch.
She’d tell us all that we’re drinking too much.
She’d long for the days when we all still had the energy to play game after game of Trivial Pursuit at the end of the night.
She’d wonder where all the time had gone before she eventually got a chance to eat, once everyone left.
She’d break off a small piece of leftover turkey, feed it to the dog, and finally start to relax after a long day.
She’d lean back in her recliner, the familiar buzz of westerns playing on the TV, and take another sip of ice-cold coffee before opening her book.
She’d be asleep before hitting page three…
She’d be sitting there, across the table in that armless, high-back chair, I tell you. She’d be sitting right there.
But she’s not. Not this year, or ever again.
I swear, though, if you close your eyes and listen really closely, you can still hear her yelling at the kids to stop jumping on the couch. You can still hear her asking us to turn on the non-existent Phillies game.
If you listen just closely enough, you can hear her put down her fork, get up from the table, and shuffle to the kitchen to put the biscuits, that she forgot to cook every single year, into the oven.
And if you try hard enough, you can still smell them.
- Originally published by P.S. I Love You on November 25, 2020.
This one goes out to all the folks for whom the holidays happen to be a bit harder than the rest of the year. I hope you find peace and happiness in any way that you can.
Be well and keep talking.
DISCLAIMER: I am, by no means, a medical profession. If you need help, please seek qualified medical attention. This newsletter, while informative and fun, is no substitute for the real thing.