Growing up in West, the only difference between a typical Sunday and Thanksgiving Day was that we dressed up for the latter and added turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce to the holiday menu.
           A typical Sunday went like this: first, my mom woke up early, fried chicken, made coleslaw or potato salad, or both, and baked a chocolate sheet cake. Then she’d clean up the kitchen and have her daughters dressed and ready for ten o’clock Mass. After Mass, we returned home briefly to pick up the food, which was then placed on the backseat package shelf of the car. Then, Dad drove us six miles down a gravel road to my grandparents’ house where Mom’s ten siblings, their spouses, and a million offspring gathered for dinner, which is what we called the noontime meal. I will never forget the smell of road dust mingling with fried chicken, because our car wasn’t air-conditioned, and on warm days, all four windows were rolled down.
           My grandparents owned a 100-acre farm and a four-room L-shaped house with a large attic. Every family brought food—a potluck wonderland. Casserole dishes, platters, and bowls covered the long, rectangular kitchen table. Pots and pans warmed on the stove, and desserts lined the kitchen counter. Dishes consisted of pork sausage (of course) fried chicken, sometimes chicken and dumplings, roast, and ham. There were green beans, lima beans, green peas, broccoli, beets, stewed okra with tomatoes, regular corn, creamed corn, and squash—all boiled. Then there was what I called “white food:” mashed potatoes and gravy, potato salad, pan-fried potatoes with onions, boiled potatoes with tiny bits of parsley (I thought that was so classy), sauerkraut, white rice, and boiled cabbage. Bowls of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber salads were wedged between the hot vegetable dishes. To complement the main dishes were jars of dill pickles, bread and butter pickles, and pickled orca. Dessert choices—actually the choice was not what to eat for dessert, but when—ranged from Mom’s chocolate cake, other chocolate cakes, whitish cake, angel food cake. Sometimes someone would bring a fancy coconut or German chocolate cake. Pies? Certainly: chocolate, lemon meringue, peach, apple, cherry, pecan, and, if you can believe it, a raisin pie. And a plethora of plates stacked with chocolate-chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, Rice Krispie squares. Of course, there were kolaches, which were often baked the day before. And (guess again) raisin cookies.
           I ate everything except the beets and raisin cookies and pies. Why eat raisins when you could eat chocolate? I closely studied the cookies to make sure I didn’t mistake a raisin for a chocolate chip because I would have to eat whatever cookie I grabbed. If it was a raisin cookie, I had to wait several minutes before I could run back into the kitchen to snatch a chocolate chip cookie. I often wondered who brought the raisin pies and cookies, and why? Years later, it dawned on me that it was probably one of my aunts who vividly experienced the depression or rations during WWII when chocolate was scarce. One last note about desserts: I ate Rice Krispie squares because they were there, but they weren’t my favorite. Once I realized they took up too much room in my stomach, I avoided them.
           When it was time to eat, we all squeezed into the kitchen and said grace. The men ate first, followed by the kids, then the women. When it was the kids’ turn to eat, we filled our plates and vied for a chair. Some of us sat at the table, some outside on the porch, some in the living room, basically wherever we could find a seat. Indoor plumbing was eventually added to the house, a bathroom was built (more on that in another blog post), as well as a little side room called the domino room. It provided more seating options.
           Every Sunday—every, every Sunday—it was an all-day food frenzy. You probably think that we were a chubby family. Nope. I remember tall, thin uncles, petite, slender aunts, a tall, strong grandpa, a short, thin grandma, and very active cousins. After all, we had a big farm to run around on. The entire Sunday chronology for us kids was: eat, fish, chase chickens, eat again, explore the woods, play in my grandfather’s blacksmith shop, eat again, play baseball, play hide and seek in the cornfields, and eat again.
           So in my family, Thanksgiving came around once a week, not once a year—one of the many reasons I’m happy I grew up Catholic in a small Texas town. I’m so grateful for my huge, extended family. I don’t get to see them very often, but I know they’re there. I’d like to thank my cousin, Mildred, for sending the photos. In case you’re wondering; it does occasionally snow in Texas.
            I’ll be posting again in about two weeks. Until then Happy Thanksgiving to all.
For more blog posts about “Growing Up Catholic in a Small Texas Town” go to my website blog: www.kathleenkaska.com
If you enjoy these blog posts, please share. Except for my family, the names in these essays are sometimes changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty), and I’ve embellished a little.