Liz's Lesson Learned: Together with Cornbread

Sometimes when I write, titles are hard to come up with.  This lesson learned was one of those times.  My memoir writing teacher and classmates brainstormed with me and determined that my piece was about “Together".  Simple, yet it encompasses so much.  Is it family, memories, fun, hope, friends, activities, newness, or generations?  Check out this month’s lesson learned.  Then you decide.  What’s your idea of “Together” and allow that idea to propel you and yours into a New Year full of hope!

I was showing my 16-year-old grandson (in a few days, he would be 17!) how to make cornbread dressing from scratch. My Mom taught me how to make it, and I taught my children and now my grandchildren. Yes indeed, together through the generations with cornbread.

It was November 26, 2025. Over the last three days, I had been gradually preparing Thanksgiving dinner.  As an adult, I usually do not cook the meal on this holiday, because Thanksgiving either falls on a day close to or on my birthday.

On Tuesday, an inner voice told me not to cook the greens (which I don't eat) with butter.  I used olive oil, just as I do when my son, who is a vegan, is home.  He lives in Harlem, New York, and wasn’t planning to come home until Christmas. Perhaps I thought cooking a meal that included vegan choices would make it feel like a piece of him was there, warming my soul.

I also knew I would miss the presence of my middle child, because she and her family live in Spokane, Washington.  But I was very thankful that my oldest daughter and her four children would spend the day with my husband and me.

On Thanksgiving Eve, I had gone out to do something, and when I returned, the front door to the house was open.  I ambled up the front steps and was greeted by Rach, my son’s dog.  My face almost burst with the grin that erupted into a yell, “Rach!”  She did her usual jump on me.  On her hind legs, her head almost reached the top of my head.

As she licked my cheek, I knew she could not be there without him.  Then I heard his voice. My son had come home to surprise me for my birthday.  We heartily hugged one another, and I clapped on the back in welcome.  I knew it would be a great birthday.  Our planned family Zoom call on my birthday meant I would feel warmed by them all.

Well, the day I happily anticipated all year was here.  Today was my birthday, and it was Thanksgiving, too!

It was a brisk Fall day. The weather ranged between a high of 42 and a low of 29. No matter which window you looked out of, the lawn around the house was covered with a complement of orange, green, brown, and red leaves.  

I smiled as I thought about my husband, who would proudly head outside to use the lawn mower blower to gather up those leaves in piles, and then he would place them in light brown leaf bags and set them on the curb to be picked up.  He enjoys this ritual, and that means I don’t have to do it. 

Left up to me, those leaves would spend the winter months either having that frigid weather breathe on them until they became brittle or being blissfully hidden beneath one of the infrequent snowfalls that blanket the lawns and streets of this area.

Back in the kitchen, we were all busy with meal preparations. I had cooked the cornbread the night before.  Our next task was to create the dressing. 

“Let's set up the blender,” I told my grandson.

“Okay, Grandma.” And off he went to pull out the blender.

“You'll need the wide-mouth blender pitcher.  It’s better for chopping.”

He brought the blender over, and I showed him how to assemble it.  I smiled because now standing in my faux fur slippered feet, I had to look up at my handsome grandson.  It seemed like yesterday that he was looking up at me.

He peeled a large onion, and I chunked three long, crisp stalks of celery.

“Wash the onion and then cut it into medium-sized pieces and put them in the blender.  As I put the rinsed celery in the blender, I noticed his eyes were tearing.

“I either hold my breath when I peel onions, or I peel and cut them under cold water. It cuts down on the odor that causes our eyes to tear up.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.” He replied as he continued to brave the onslaught of the onion aroma.  Having cut it up, he put the pieces into the blender and then grabbed a paper towel to wipe the tears from his eyes. 

My chuckling at his onion bravery, together with the intermittent whirring of the blender, the laughter, and all the family noises that were occurring around the house, reminded me of a Thanksgiving long ago…

      *      *      *

On November 27, 1969, I woke up with a smile and in a great mood.  I quickly rolled out of the lower bunk bed and carefully moved around my little sister, who was still sleeping in the trundle.  I went and cleaned my body, got dressed, and made my way downstairs.  As I passed my siblings who beat me getting up, each greeted me with a hearty “Happy birthday, Elizabeth!!  My mother and father also called out birthday wishes.

My mother was at the dining room table, cutting and dicing celery, onions, and mushrooms for the cornbread dressing and the gravy.  Music was playing on the hi-fi.  The house was bustling as we all moved around singing, dancing, laughing, talking, and getting ready for Thanksgiving. 

Oh, but there was a double celebration going on in our small brick semi-detached house.  I had been waiting for the day to come, and finally, here it was! Thanksgiving, and to top it off, it was my birthday!

I watched my Mom melt two sticks of butter in a large black iron skillet.  To the butter she added portions of onions, celery, and mushrooms.  She sauteed the mixture until the added ingredients became moist but not so long that the butter would burn.  She added salt and pepper.  Then it was time to crumble up the two packages of Flako cornbread and add it to the mixture in the iron skillet.  The gradual folding of the cornbread created the cornbread dressing that would be stuffed into the turkey and slowly cooked in the oven for approximately an hour before dinner.  The ham that had been glazed would go on the oven’s top shelf.  The oven was set for the first round of cooking.  An hour and a half would pass before my Mom would open the oven door and baste the turkey with seasoned melted butter.

With the turkey and ham in the oven, my Mom went into the livingroom and sat in an armchair.  I walked into the livingroom feeling a little concerned that I hadn’t gotten a card or anything.  I thought maybe they had been so busy getting ready for Thanksgiving, they forgot to get something for my birthday.  My day was here, and I felt forgotten.  Well, they all wished me a happy birthday. So, I didn’t want to say anything. I just kept my unhappy feelings to myself. 

Then my Mom called my Dad.  When he appeared, he had a slender white box in his hand.  He handed the box to my Mom.  They were both smiling, and my siblings were looking on from various places around the livingroom and dining room.

My Dad beamed as my Mom passed the box to me and said, “Here you are, Elizabeth.  Happy birthday!”

They watched as I looked down at that box.  I was happy just holding the unopened box in my hands.  But not as happy as I became once I opened it.  Inside the box was a watch!  It was gray.  The wristband was slender.  Around the dainty watch face was a band of gold, and a small gold diamond-like stud replaced the 3. The other numbers were evenly placed around the face of the watch.  The wristband had a buckle clasp.  My Mom helped me put the watch on.

I kept looking at my new watch.  Yes, my day was there, and it was great.  The meal would be wonderful.  I was surrounded by family. But nothing, not even eating a heaping second helping of my beloved sweet potatoes, outdid the joy of that watch I got that year…

      *

Back then, I was 10 years old.  I could tell the time.  But I had never owned a watch.  I could not stop grinning as I remembered how happy the very young me was that day.

Fifty-six years later, and there I was celebrating another of many birthdays that fell on Thanksgiving.  I didn’t need another watch.  I didn’t need another gift.  I couldn’t have been happier.  My son had come home.  He and I made holiday visits to the homes of different relatives. My oldest daughter and her children were at the house helping to fill the day with lively, busy joy.  And at 7 pm Thanksgiving evening, my husband and I Zoomed with all my children, grandchildren, and my living brothers and sisters.

Without even realizing it at the time, passing a recipe down through the generations is a part of keeping our family together…  No, actually, it was more than passing down the recipe, because it isn’t written down anywhere.  It was making the cornbread dressing together.

Whether my birthday falls on Thanksgiving or not, I look forward to it coming every year.  Well, it came, and just like 56 years ago, we were together with cornbread, and I could not have been happier!