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Show A great meal is more than just good food (thz &&ntar9s By MARC HADDOCK It was the best meal he ever had. At least that's the way John Hall described the Thanksgiving he spent at my house some 11 years ago and he wasn't talking about Thanksgiving dinner, either. We were roommates at BYU, paying too much money for an over-rated six-person apartment. John and I shared a bedroom with two twin beds, my cheap stereo and his overloaded bookcase filled with ! volumes on the antiquities the j kind of things only a scholar of the ancient Greek and Roman history would ever read. We also shared a good friendship, and with his home far away in i Florida, I invited him home for I Thanksgiving a time when no one should be alone. I I never knew what he thought about that small farm-railroad community that sits pretty much by itself at the base of a small hill. Certainly it didn't compare with his home town of Jacksonville, someplace I'll probably never go. But he seemed to like it well enough. And he enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner. (John likes to eat, and my mother was a good cook. He didn't go hungry. Neither did I.) Most of all we spent the day holiday just lying aid around doing I nothing, a pleasant break from the j rigors of college life. (At least John went about it rigorously. Latin and Greek require rigor. I was a journalism major, so lying around understood how much work she put into "throwing together" all the makings of a simple supper that could rival any Thanksgiving dinner until we tried it once. The trays Mom used have been passed down to us along with the memories. And once we attempted to repeat her recipe for a successful Sunday evening meal, but by the time our little ones got through with the fixin's, there was more food on the floor than in the kids. (I have decided since then that this family tradition didn't start until I was able to eat that way without making a mess.) Maybe in a few years we'll repeat the experiment, because as simple as they were, those meals stay with me. And I wonder if Mom ever realized that with each meal, painstakingly prepared with deceptive ease, she was creating an important part of the tapestry that would comprise my memories. The entire texure of my home life flooded through my mind when I talked with John about the best meal he ever ate. The meal transcended the food, and rather represented an atmosphere of security, well-being and friendly togetherness. And that's what every memorable meal, be it Thanksgiving dinner or potato soup, should do. If dinner can do that, then it becomes the best meal you'll ever eat, no matter what's on the plate. was nothing new to me.) All in all, nothing about that Thanksgiving stood out in my mind. In fact, I'd forgotten all about it until a few weeks ago when John and I were talking and he brought up the best meal he'd ever eaten. And he wasn't talking about Thanksgiving dinner but the meal later that evening when the main course was that shared with resignation by families all over the USA leftover turkey. But my mother had a knack of turning a big dinner's leftovers into the best meal of the day. She would start about 7 p.m. to prepare - the spread with what appeared to be a minimum amount . of fuss on two wooden trays. The turkey meat (or whatever) would be cut into managable slabs and piled on a plat. There were three or four types of bread usually white, wheat and rye also piled on one of the trays. Then there was butter and large slices of sweet purple onions. Mom would throw in a relish tray with her favorite pickles, fresh vegetables, potato chips and a couple of dips. If we were lucky, there was a bowl with onion rings and cucumbers soaked in vinegar. Then she'd throw together something to drink, usually a pleasant combination of grape juice and 7-Up. We'd gather in the family room with the television on and she'd bring out the food, setting the tray down on the coffee table. After that, it was every man for himself I relished that meal, but I also took it for granted. I'd eaten that way as long as I could remember. My earliest memories of Sunday evenings are tied to that type of meal built around roast lamb and enjoyed while ': watching a new episode of "Maverick." So I was surprised when John reminisced about that Thanksgiving day years ago when he ate what he considered to be the best meal of his life. They were the best meals I've ever eaten as well, but since I'd eaten them weekly, I never realized how precious those evenings had been to me. We don't eat that way any more. Mom is no longer around to prepare them for one thing, and I never |
