A few years ago, Patti Labelle posted a sweet potato pie recipe that took Facebook by storm. People went crazy, with one commenter declaring the pie would make the year “the Thanksgiving to remember”. With all due respect, the “Thanksgiving to remember” took place in 1993 – in Paducah, KY, at a little restaurant called The Grecian Inn.
My husband, two children and I live nearly 700 miles away from my western Kentucky family, and in the early 90’s, I always made a sweet potato pie, froze it, and took it home to contribute to Thanksgiving dinner. I found a recipe in my Kentucky Kitchens cookbook shortly after Jon and I were married, that I’ve made every year since 1986. Nothing against Patti Labelle, but it would be difficult to outdo this particular pie. When my family and I arrived at my mom and dad’s house for Thanksgiving 1993, my mom informed us she had made “reservations” for Thanksgiving dinner that year, there “isn’t any sense in you and Mamaw doing all that cooking” and it would “be easier” to eat out. Mamaw was none too happy with the arrangement, and what was I to do with my pie? But my Uncle Charles agreed, which meant Thanksgiving morning, we piled in our cars, stopped to pick Mamaw up and made our way to The Grecian Inn. Because nothing expresses American thankfulness quite like the turkey and dressing buffet at the Grecian Inn.
A little background: Before The Grecian Inn was The Grecian Inn, it was a strip bar, conveniently located just across the Clarks River (as in the Lewis and Clark Expedition) from where I grew up, near the largest concentration of liquor stores in our area. I can absolutely understand my mom’s logic in choosing this place for our family Thanksgiving. Now on to the story.
The first thing you have to understand about my family is we have no attention span. None at all. Second, we will talk about anything – nothing is off limits. And finally, none of us know how to whisper. At all. Like, not even a little bit. As we traipse into the Grecian Inn for our Thanksgiving dinner, my Uncle Charles announces – loudly, “Looks like we’re the only ones here.” Except for the lone man in the corner – who quite possibly thought it was still a strip club – we did, in fact, have the buffet to ourselves. Good thing Mom made reservations. My brother thought this was great; we could have the table right next to the buffet and not have to stand in line. Another thing I should mention: we like to eat. The men had their plates loaded before poor Mamaw had her coat off, but she assured us she was not in a hurry. A blessing was offered, and thus began running commentary. I remember bits and pieces of the conversation, mostly Charles, my mom and Mamaw.
Charles: “The dressing’s pretty good; did you get any of it, Mama?”
Mamaw: “I believe it’s processed.”
Mom: “I like these potatoes; do y’all want more? There’s plenty up there.”
Mamaw: “I believe they came from a box.”
Me: “Did y’all get any peas? They’re pretty decent…”
Mom: “Peas have always reminded me of big old dog ticks.”
Charles “You know, they do me too. I never could eat ’em.”
Mamaw: “They came from a can.”
Mom: “Well Mama, at least you don’t have to clean up after us this time.”
Mamaw: “I don’t believe I want to do this next year”.
That night, Mamaw showed up at my parents’ house with a pumpkin pie, bless her heart, and I took my sweet potato pie out of the refrigerator. We all cut a piece of each pie, and I’ll always remember Mamaw taking a bite of sweet potato pie and saying “this is pretty good”. Then a bite of pumpkin, and “mine’s pretty good too”. I like to think Mamaw was proud of my baking skill, but I know for sure that Thanksgiving wouldn’t truly have been Thanksgiving without us sitting around that table with those pies. At least not for her.
We couldn’t have known that day, but this would be the last year we’d have all of us around a table. We lost my brother the next October, and Mamaw always grieved that his last Thanksgiving wasn’t at her house. But somehow I think it was the way it was supposed to be. I picture all the ones I love in Heaven talking about that crazy year. I can just see my people sitting around a big table, reminiscing about earthly American Thanksgiving, and striking up a conversation with a less colorful – “normal” Heavenly being. I can just hear Barry – or mom – saying “let me tell you about Thanksgiving of 1993 at The Grecian Inn…”
My daughter made sweet potato pie this year, and I think Mamaw would be proud. I’ll think about her this Thanksgiving, as I do every year. And I’ll give thanks for all I have – most of all for a family full of love and crazy and enough memories to last a lifetime. I’m the luckiest girl on the face of the earth that God chose to bless me with the family He did. They are forever my heart.
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all. And until next time, peace and joy, folks.