RASINS IN THE DRESSING. (To have or to hold)--by Laurean Brooks

My dad acquired the love of cooking while in his late forties after the captain of the riverboat Waterways Marine, made him interim cook. The official cook was recuperating from a broken leg, and Daddy volunteered for the job.

When the cooking bug bit him, he never looked back. He had a flair for concocting unusual dishes. I still cringe at the visual of turtle, baked raccoon, and opossum, Daddy set before us. All these were probably tasty, but my stomach tied in knots at the thought of putting these meats in my mouth. Even though, to spare my dad’s feelings, I would often force myself to sample a little.

He claimed that turtle tasted like seven kinds of meat. I Googled while writing this and discovered he was right. When I didn’t recognize the turtle dish he set on the table, I asked, “Daddy, what kind of meat is that?”

“Chicken,” came his quick reply.

My six siblings asked the same question about the unknown dish, and all received a different answer. From chicken to beef, to pork, to shrimp, veal, fish, or goat. Anything to get us to try the turtle. Some of my siblings did try it. Some managed to swallow with a poker face. Others gagged.

Our mother was a traditional cook. The tried and true recipes were the only ones she used. And those were the ones she learned from her mother and grandmother. Now that you know our dad's penchant for creating unusual dishes and Mama’s insistence on the tried and true, you will better understand the Thanksgiving feud that occurred one year. 

Daddy thought he was helping Mama with Thanksgiving dinner one year, when he stirred together the ingredients for his unique dressing. Every ingredient was the same as Mama's—except one. Daddy added a cup of raisins to the mix. 

He explained that he'd found the dressing recipe in a gourmet cookbook. Mama was not happy about the addition and decided to make her usual cornbread dressing, which was always moist and delicious.

Our parents rarely argued. When they weren’t happy, they’d just give one another the cold shoulder. But you could slice the tension with a knife when Mama set her dressing on the table and announced, “Your daddy's dressing is sitting on the stove. It has raisins in it,” she huffed, “Whoever heard of such?” 

Daddy explained again that he'd followed a genuine recipe from his special cookbook. His argument didn't phase Mama, who never used a recipe for anything. Caught between a rock and a hard place, my siblings made no comment. We kept our heads down and exchanged furtive upward glances around the table. 

We didn't want to upset Mama any more than she was, but we didn't want to hurt Daddy's feelings, either. I don't remember what Johnny, Ralph, Jewell, Paul, Emily, or Stanley did, but I sampled a little of both dressings. I didn't score any brownie points with Mama that Thanksgiving Day. The raisin dressing wasn’t bad, but I didn’t voice my thoughts.

We endured the meal in silence, except for sentences like, "Pass the rolls," or "Scoop me up some mashed banana pudding, please." 

I don't remember the fate of Daddy’s raisin dressing, but I suspect by day three, our dogs had their bellies full of raisins.

Have you ever experienced a squabble at a Thanksgiving gathering? It cane at at time when we should have been thanking the Lord for our many blessings. Family, health, prosperity and freedom. 

Share your experiences.

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  When Jenny Largent hops a train north to Chicago, she hasn't a clue what she's in for.  First, a handsome thief runs away with her carry-on bag.  Just when she thinks her troubles are over, he shows up at her aunt's church raising money for a so-called mission. Jenny figures Austin is pocketing the money and tries to convince her aunt. Her aunt doesn't buy it. Jenny joins the mission trip to prove Austin is a thief.

But soon, Jenny's feelings for Austin morph into love. Will she report him when she spies him taking money from the mission strongbox? 

A sweet romance loaded with humor, interesting characters, and an interesting plot--with a dash of Depression Era history thrown in. 

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Forgiveness-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B01FEDR8O8/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Journey+To+Forgiveness%2FLaurean+Brooks&qid=1605714219&s=books&sr=1-1

Hop In The Trailer, Kids! We're Off To Cut Wood. -- Laurean Brooks

Crisp, cool autumn days transport me back to the family farm and memories of cutting firewood. While Daddy sharpened the saw blade, not one of us kids could come up with a good-enough excuse to get out of the work.

After our older brothers loaded the axe and saw in the two-wheeled trailer, they hitched the old Farmall tractor to it. Then Daddy. yelled, “Hop in the trailer! We're cutting firewood.” Dressed in our old coats, gloves, and toboggans met him outside.

He usually drove the tractor while the rest of us piled into the trailer for a bumpy ride across the fields and into the woods.

When I was older, Daddy bought a chainsaw. I never used it, but before I was a teen, I cut wood with a crosscut saw. 

Mostly, it was Daddy and our older brothers sawed the logs into pieces while my sister, younger brother and I, threw them on the trailer. But if, while Daddy was working his 30-day shift on the riverboat, the wood supply dwindled, Mama ushered us kids to the woods. My brother Ralph usually drove the tractor on those days. 

Our oldest brother, Johnny, was a sly one. He usually slipped off to a friend's house after school if he got wind that we would be cutting firewood that afternoon. But only when Daddy wasn't home. 

Using a crosscut saw is not as easy as it looks. You and your partner on the other end have to keep the same rhythm of pulling and no pushing. Pushing the saw defeats the purpose. You must wait for the person on the other end to pull the saw through. If you'd don't, the saw jams in the log and is a struggle to free. Worse than jamming the saw was hitting a knot or nail in a log. I can still feel the jarring vibration from the saw.

The firewood was to be cut into specific lengths between 15 and 18-inches. No longer. Mama's orders.

When enough firewood was cut to last for a month, we rode back in the trailer on top of the woodpile, unloading the wood when we got home.

Later, our brothers would split the firewood with an axe, halving or quartering it, depending on the size of the log.

If Daddy was home and Mama hadn't helped with wood-cutting, we came inside to the delicious aroma of dinner.

Cutting firewood was a chore, but I wouldn't trade the memories of those days for anything. Memories of frost nipping at my cheeks, and the pungent scents of cedar, birch, locust or oak tantalizing my senses as each piece fell to the ground.

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Do you enjoy romance from the Depression Era? JOURNEY TO FORGIVENESS is a story loosely based on my parents' lives, set in 1938. "Jenny," my mother, was a savvy young woman (18-years-old), from the South who hopped a train to Chicago to find work to support her mother and younger siblings. Sparks fly when she encounters the "thief" who ran off with her vanity case. What happens when she runs into him again? 
Sorry. You will have to read the book. 

https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Forgiveness-Laurean-Brooks-ebook/dp/B01FEDR8O8/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1571431885&sr=8-1-fkmr0