Recently, I had the pleasure of going to a concert at the Fillmore in Charlotte. The wildly energetic and eclectic violinist Lindsey Stirling was performing and my friend Claire and I were anticipating magical riffs from her flying fiddle bow.
It starts with some stale white bread. Then a little butter, onion, chicken broth, celery, and salt are added. But for Waynesboro writer and essayist Mollie Cox Bryan, Thanksgiving Day stuffing features another key ingredient.
Mollie Cox Bryan has a new book out, A Crafty Christmas: A Cumberland Creek Mystery. She's also the author of Mrs. Rowe's Little Book of Southern Pies and Scrapbook of Secrets, among other books. For more information, visit her website.
Every morning, I eat a banana for breakfast. My banana is not a gluten free-range banana. Nor is it a banana with a sticker that proclaims, “No tarantulas were harmed in the picking of this fruit.” It is a plain old banana.
When did eating become so complicated?
My paternal grandparents, Santa and Sebastiano, cooked simple dishes based on recipes straight from the Old Country. Some of my earliest and most traumatic food-related memories are based on meals served in their apartment.
Thirteen years ago I was a teacher in a classroom of sixth graders in Culpeper, Virginia, an hour from Washington, D.C. When the first plane flew into the towers, I was notified by the principal, in subdued tones at the classroom doorway, of the unfolding tragedy, our voices lost in the din of migrating desks and exploding backpacks. I was instructed not to inform students of that morning's events. I knew that at least one child had a father working at the Pentagon.
Classes are starting, which means that I’m likely only weeks away from that moment—as inevitable as first-week crushes and pasta-bar hangovers—when a student walks into my office, paper in hand, and says, “I don’t understand. Just tell me what you want.”