The smell of poultry seasoning transports me back to my Momma's Alabama kitchen in November of 1998 faster than Michael J. Fox in a Delorean. Every Thanksgiving, as soon as I open the canister of spices -- it's as though I'm standing there, watching the scene unfold before me...
My mother slid the cornbread dressing into the oven as my younger sister and I chopped vegetables and stirred pots. The turkey was almost done and the smell of roasting meat filled the house with its rich scent. The sounds of football and male conversation drifted in from the den as my Grandaddy, brother, husband and uncle attempted to stay out of the way.
My petite and proper, Southern Baptist grandmother, Dot, was dressed in her Sunday finest and chatting with us as we prepared our Thanksgiving feast. Her white hair was permed and perfectly coifed. Her red size five pumps were the exact shade of her lipstick, her knock-off Chanel suit, red clip-on earrings.
I took a moment to pause, mentally, and appreciate the beauty of what we were sharing. Three generations of women, gathered around the stove and giving thanks for all the blessings we enjoyed. Cooking recipes that had been tweaked and handed down through my family for generations -- what a gift!
I became teary as I realized that my grandparents were getting older and that one day, all too soon -- this crystal clear moment would fade to a hazy memory.
The channel changed in the next room and now instead of hearing Sportscenter, we began overhearing news reporters discussing President Bill Clinton's recently discovered indiscretion.
"Mmm, it's just shameful," Momma said as she stirred the gravy.
My sister and I nodded in agreement as my grandmother said in her very Southern drawl, "I just cain't believe he had oral sex in the Oval Office. What is this world coming to?"
I made eye contact with my sister right before I almost lost consciousness from the shock. But I was now certain that this particular Thanksgiving would never fade into the recesses of my mind and for that, I was thankful.