That’s what Granny called putting on her makeup — putting her face on. When I was little and we lived with Granny and Baw, I would lie on her bed and watch her while she stood in front of her bedroom window and put on her face. Now Granny didn’t wear a lot of “paint,” but she did wear powder, a little rouge, and lipstick.

I remember watching Mama do the same thing, in front of a day-home-office magnifying mirror that she still uses. As a child pretending to put on makeup in front of Mama’s mirror, I always preferred the rosy glow of the home light as opposed to the harsh fluorescence of office. I still do. A pink light bulb is always your friend.

Like Granny and like Mama, I put my face on every day. Without fail. Unless I’m throwing up my feet. I just do.

Three months of bathroom and bedroom renovations has, however, put a hitch in my gitalong. I’ve had to move my dressing table into the dining room along with all the rest of my bedroom furniture and put on my make-up in the guest bathroom, which I share…with a teenage boy. I have to stand. There’s no rosy glow.

I know, I know. What a hardship. Oh, poor pitiful me.

Husband keeps making reference to bootstraps. I roll my eyes. He doesn’t understand.

You see, putting my face on every day is much more to me than slapping on some eyeliner and blush and heading out the door.

Every morning, I sit at my dressing table. I drink a cup of coffee. I spend a few minutes just staring into my own eyes. While I go through my little beauty routine, I think about the day coming up — what I have to do, where I’ll go, how I’ll handle different situations. I have a couple of Bible verses that I stuck in the mirror during a particularly dark time. I still read them every day. I’ve gotten some of my best ideas while contemplating a stray eyebrow hair magnified 10 times its normal size.

It’s my quiet time to get my mind right. To put my face on — my made up face and my public face. To put on the face the world will see and the face that can cope with what the world sends my way.

At least for that one day.

You can’t put your face on while you drink a diet Coke, apply mascara, talk on the phone, and drive through morning traffic. You can’t put your face on in the ladies room at the office. And you can’t put your face on standing in a guest bathroom surrounded by a cloud of Axe fighting for mirror time with a teenager.

I am seven hard wood steps and a few feet of quarter round away from being able to put my face on again.

You see, nowadays most of our food is trying to kill us, and not in the caveman chased by a sabre-toothed tiger sort of way. When you look at the sweeteners, artificial ingredients, preservatives, dyes, and Frankenstein-like  lab creations that are in most all of the food that is readily accessible and affordable for most of the populace, it’s no wonder that we, as a nation, have grown fatter and sicker in just the last 20 years. We are slowly being killed by convenience.

So what’s a girl to do?

Get informed. Was your food created in a lab or grown in a garden? Are the chickens that laid your eggs part of a monumental commercial production or did they every get to go outside and eat a bug? Is your meat full of growth hormones and antibiotics? I remember when the only thing genetically different about the produce I ate was which farmer we bought it from.

Read the box. Husband and I have become label readers of the worst sort, clogging up the aisles at the grocery store while we scan ingredients and nutritional claims. Sometimes I have to whip out the old smart phone and Google something. What is xanthan gum really? Cyanocobalamin? A good rule of thumb is to buy products with the least amount of ingredients possible. And if you can’t pronounce it and don’t know what it is, chances are you shouldn’t eat it.

Shop local. Patronize your local farmers’ markets. Be part of a community-supported agriculture group (CSA). Get those summer tomatoes that are still warm from the sun and get to know the person who grew them.  You don’t have to march up and down the road in front of Monsanto in protest. Just spend your money elsewhere, like in your own neighborhood.

Grow your own. You’d be surprised how much food you can get from just a small garden! My one fig tree yields more than I can preserve, pickle, and dry. If you have too much, share with your friends or learn to can. It’s easy. Freezing is even easier.

Cook. It’s just as easy to bake a potato as it is to microwave a cardboard container of a frozen something that claims to be food. And it’s a whole lot more satisfying. If you think every meal has to be a gourmet extravaganza, get over it. I have fallen victim to marthastewart-itis in my day, admittedly. But I’ve come to realize that sometimes a fried egg and a piece of toast is really all you need.

Now I’m not claiming that I’m all that and a bag of chips cooked in genetically modified corn oil. We’ve strayed over to the white bread side of life a time or two. We still frequent our local Mexican restaurant with alarming regularity. (They hug us we go there so much.) And I’m pretty sure that tonic water is not considered a health food, nor is the gin I mixed with it. It is, after all, summertime.

The point is we’re trying.

Say you find yourself at a Shell station in Livingston, Ala. And say it’s been a while since you had a salad for lunch. It’s easy to find a healthy snack even there. Look past the honey buns and Bugles. Avoid the 100 Grand, the wax lips, and the jerky. I have found the perfect snack with only two ingredients. Plus it has a Bible verse on the package so it must be alright.

Well, what did you expect from a Southern girl?

(Note: Notice anything about the Bible verse?)

Teddy and me

I stood with dozens of family members, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of friends as his mother, his wife, and his daughter returned his ashes to the earth, his soul, I’m sure, already in Heaven.

Two months my senior, Teddy was a true golden boy — an adorable tow-headed child who turned into a funny, mischievous, athletic teenager and grew into a smart, gregarious, loving, devoted husband, father, and friend. What seemed like all of Baldwin County turned out today to pay their respects, share their stories, shed their tears, and celebrate a life that touched so very many in what seems like a very short time. Just like they did for Teddy’s dad, who also left us before we were ready to let him go twenty-four years ago.

When my Uncle Ted died at the ripe old age of 44 and I was only 21, it didn’t seem quite as young as it did today. When I was in college, 44 seemed like it would never arrive. And it didn’t for Teddy, who would have been 44 this coming July.

Before death (and school, and work, and life) separated our family, we would regularly gather at my paternal grandparents home in Chickasaw, Ala., for big gumbo dinners — my daddy and his two brothers, their wives, the five grandchildren. We always had a high old time.

There would be piping hot gumbo, shrimp salad, West Indies salad, potato salad, and Saltine crackers. There would be cold Cokes for the kids, a rare treat then, and sometimes Grandpa Mac might give you a little sip of Bud when no one was looking. Granny Mac always kept a full candy dish, and we could have all the sweets we wanted.

Celebrating our 40th birthdays

After the big meal, the adults would sit around visiting, and all of us kids would usually head out into the yard to play. One of our favorite games was “Mother, may I.” We played it over and over and over and over…

If you are not familiar with “Mother may I,” it goes something like this: One child is “it” or the “mother.” Teddy would always call “it” first, claiming he was the oldest and, therefore, entitled to be first. He would stand on the back steps while the rest of us lined up across the far end of the driveway.

Teddy would scrutinize us, ostensibly planning his elaborate strategy. Then he would say, for example, “Audrey, take two giant steps forward.”

The response, “Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

Then I would take two of the biggest steps I could muster.

Then he would eye the remaining cousins.

“Martina, take four bunny hops.”

“Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

“John, take three baby steps.”

“Mother, may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

“Ricia, take six jumps — only on your left foot.”

And so it would go until one of us got close enough to tag Teddy and become “it.” Then the game would start all over.

It was a silly game, but we loved it. We always played it. We always had fun.  We always wound up giggling hysterically at all the crazy antics Teddy could think up to put us through.

I wish I could go back thirty-odd years and play “Mother, may I” with my cousins one more time. Only this time, I’d get to be “it” first because I’m the oldest now.

And the first thing I would say?

“Teddy Boy, take one more day.”

The Magic Kingdom

Walt Disney envisioned a place where parents and children could have fun together, an idea he got while trying to find activities to do with his own two daughters. His idea was realized with the 1955 opening of Disneyland in Anaheim, California. Disney World followed, opening in Lake Buena Vista, Florida, in 1971.

Disney World is a marvel of fun, fantasy, imagination, and excitement. Sonny and I spent Spring Break down there, and it was magical. Well, mostly magical.

Let me tell you what I mean.

Not magical: Waiting in line. And waiting. And waiting…

Magical: The line sometimes moves so fast that you don’t have time see all the interesting things along the way, like Hidden Mickeys, especially if you have a FASTPASS.

Not magical: Shoulder to shoulder crowds trying to push toward a parade, a show, an exit…good Lord, where is the exit?

Magical: Sharing a lunch table with two absolutely delightful families at Epcot‘s Biergarten Restaurant in the Germany Pavilion. One family had an Irish mama, and American daddy, and a precocious five-year-old. The other family of three was actually from Germany. Across language barriers, we all shared our vacation experiences and enjoyed a show. Sonny and I ran into the German family later in the trip, and they greeted us like old friends.

Not magical: Rental scooters zooming through the crowd at warp speed. Just because you’re on wheels doesn’t mean you can play Mario Andretti in a pedestrian crowd.

Even less magical: Rental scooters zooming through the crowd at warp speed with a half dozen young ‘uns clinging onto the driver and all waving plastic swords and trailing helium balloons.

Magical: If there is anything magical about the accursed scooter, except for maybe they do allow some people to get around Disney World who might not otherwise be able to, it’s that some brilliant mind saw the humor (or the tragedy, as the case may be) in our ever increasing dependance on technology and created the social commentary movie Wall-E.

Not magical: You can tell when Mama is as mad as all get-out no matter what language she speaks.

Magical: You can tell when Mama is enjoying her family and loves them to pieces no matter what language she speaks.

Not magical: Realizing the world is covered in snot. I can’t tell you how many rug rats I saw wipe a big glob of snot off their sunburned little noses with their bare hands, then run that same hand all up and down the railing.

Magical: Hand sanitizer.

Not magical: Motion sickness from rides that spin, dip, soar, swoop, and drop.

Magical: Running cool water over your wrists will make you feel better. Every time.

Not magical: Public restrooms.

Magical: Paper toilet seat covers. Greatest invention ever.

Not magical: Manners, the niceties of polite society, and general civility seem to get left at home sometimes (along with bras, sunscreen, and common sense).

Magical: Seeing a little boy run after a lady to return the $20 bill that dropped out of her pocket.

Not magical: Oblivion.

Magical: Attention. Attention to where you are, the people around you, and how your actions may affect others.

Not magical: Sullen teenage girls who would rather spend their time in the Magic Kingdom texting on their iPhone while plugged up to the only public electrical outlet in Lake Buena Vista, Florida, which happens to be in the public bathroom near Space Mountain, than enjoying all the sun and fun their parents have spent thousands of dollars on.

Magical: A son who still enjoys spending a whole week with his mother.

Love because of this month’s celebration of St. Valentine’s Day and all things mushy, gushy, sweet, and sentimental. Collards because now is the peak season for this mighty green, my personal favorite of all the greens in the green family. And as I have contemplated love and collards, and believe me there has been some serious cogitation of late, I have come to find that the two have much in common.

Collards, like love, can sometimes be sweet and sometimes be salty. The key is to find the perfect balance. If you bring constant contention to the marital table (or the living-in-sin table or the mr.-right-right-now-table), you will create a completely unpalatable situation for your beloved. That is not to say, however, that you should be completely milquetoast and mooney.  A dash of salt here and a pinch of sugar there will lead to equilibrium, harmony, happiness.

Collards take a lot of work to get them just right — wash, wash, wash, rinse, rinse, rinse, cut out the stems, check for bad spots, stack the leaves, roll them up, slice, slice, slice. So too does love and marriage. Once you get that ring on your finger, you can’t expect to just lay back, eat bonbons, and let the chips of bliss fall where they may. It is a lot of effort to maintain a happy home, and don’t let anybody tell you different. But just like a mess of greens, if you are willing to put in the time, effort, and a heaping spoonful of patience, oh, what a sweet reward in the end.

Collards are a tough green but they can be easily bruised and damaged. You have to treat your collards gently, tenderly, compassionately. Even the biggest, toughest outside leaf is in danger of being broken if treated carelessly. Do thoughtless, irreparable damage to your collards, and you will wind up with not so much as a spoonful of potlikker. And then where will you be? Staring at a plate of dry cornbread all by yourself.

Collards ain’t nothing but collards no matter how much you try to church them up. You can call them “braised winter greens,” you can cut them into a chiffonade, you can even try to put them in a gratin or some other such nonsense, but they will still always be just plain collards. Likewise, if your honeypie was a threat to go to the store in a wife-beater and sweat pants, leave his drawers on the bathroom floor, and drink milk straight from the carton before you were married, chances are he will continue to do all those same things once you jump the broomstick. No matter how you try to dress him in Brooks Brothers and Cole Haan, no matter if you douse him in Old Spice and pomade, he’ll always be the collard you fell in love with underneath. Don’t try to turn him into Swiss chard.

Collards are good for you. Collards make you healthy. They provide comfort, make you feel all warm inside, and give you strength to carry on from day to day. Collards should bring nothing but happiness. If your collards make you miserable, if your collards make you sad, if your collards are in someone else’s pot, well…you might want to consider Swiss chard.

So come this Valentine’s Day think of love. Think of collards. I’ll have a heaping helping of both, please. I can’t get enough.

Hopefully you will never be so conflicted, but many an Alabamian will be on January 7.  You see, in a state where football is nigh unto a religious experience for the majority of the populace, this year’s BCS National Championship match-up between the University of Alabama and Notre Dame has many a local Catholic on the horns of a dilemma — can you be a fan of the Crimson Tide and a good Catholic when you feel driven by a force you cannot deny to cheer against Notre Dame ( French for “Our Lady”, the Virgin Mary, patron saint of the University)? In other words, if you boo the Blessed Mother, are you automatically on a fast track to the hot place?

So great was the anguish of the Catholic fan base, that the bishop emeritus for the Diocese of North Alabama felt the need to assure his flock in a recent homily that the faithful can indeed root for Bama without sin or regret. Can I get a HALLELUJAH?

You see, we here in Alabama are serious about not only the game, but its venerable coaches and sacrosanct championship trophies.

Paul W. “Bear” Bryant
(Photo from Wikipedia)

In recent years, the University has taken its two National Championship trophies on a whistle-stop tour through our state’s WalMarts. Like pilgrims to Canterbury, droves of devotees traveled to that cathedral of savings to lay eyes on the crystal wonderment, greeting fellow worshipers in the only acceptable manner — with a hearty “Roll Tide.” Pictures were made, thanks were given, and, I’m sure, more than one soul gazed reverently upon this ultimate prize through the blur of a tear.

So come the 7th, when crimson and white takes on gold and green on the gridiron, let us raise a joyful noise without fear of damnation, without anguish, without apology. Yea, Alabama! Roll Tide! Amen.

Because of Southern Living I recognize beachy pastels as possible holiday colors.

Because of Southern Living I find my self uttering words like “table-scape” and “disco-ball-esque.”

Because of Southern Living I am sad.

This year’s Christmas issue, a “special double issue,” found its way to my mailbox in November to taunt me, to mock me, to make me feel vaguely inferior and sort of shabby. Page after glossy page featured showplace rooms with every imaginable bit of color-coordinated holiday finery. The coral drapes match the coral and teal tree that match the coral and teal gifts that match the stockings hung by the chimney with more than just a teensy bit of care. Everything is “punchy.” It all must “pop.”

Editor M. Lindsay Bierman must have had me in mind as he watched this issue come together. In what appears to be an attempt to empathize with the common reader, he shares a dark secret with us — that his own Christmas won’t look like the pages of the magazine either, that his kitchen will be messy, that his presents will not be works of wrapping art. The magazine is to inspire, he writes, to bring out the “dreamer,” the “doer.”

I don’t buy it. My suburban ranch-style home, a product of the late 60s just like me, is not now and never will be a decorator show home — no matter how much I dream or do. It’s just not, well, it’s just not…Audrey. My decorating style can only be characterized as eclectic (read inherited, free, antique and/or thrift combined with a variety of local art work and sundry little collections of things that please me).

And you know what? I like it that way.

A couple of weeks ago, I put down the Southern Living and set about my own Christmas decorating as I do every year. My holiday style, much like my decorating style, can only be described as eclectic (read not matching, inherited, free, antique, gifts). I don’t have a snowy white tree. None of my decorations necessarily match, or mismatch. And I could not care less about seasonal napkin rings.

But here’s what I do have.

Elves in a Styrofoam and glitter hot-air balloon

I have elves in a Styrofoam and glitter hot-air balloon. Every year, me and Sarah, Granny’s housekeeper and my constant companion, would unpack Granny’s Christmas ornaments, every one carefully wrapped in tissue paper from the year before. This was my favorite. Where were the little elves going? Are they going home to the North Pole? Running away? Were they like the Jumblies, which my mother read to me over and over at my behest, off in search of adventure and Chankly Bore? The elves are hanging on my tree right now, and every time I see them, the same thoughts still run through my mind.

Wax Christmas balls

I also have Granny’s wax Christmas balls which, after many, many years of hot Southern attic summers, have melted into the very tissue paper that was supposed to protect them. Even though they can no longer be used, I still keep them, and admire their misshapen beauty every year. I guess the Alabama heat eventually gets the best of all of us.

Paper chains

I have the paper chains Sonny and I made with dime store construction paper and Scotch tape. They’re a little faded, but the memory of the afternoon we spent making them has not.

Ceramic Santa boot

I have a ceramic Santa boot given to me by my third grade Sunday School teacher, Miss Bobbi. It has my first and middle name painted on it in gold. It came filled with candy. I’ve had it for thirty-five Christmases now.

Baby’s First Christmas

I have a Baby’s First Christmas ornament given by Daddy to Sonny for just that. I have thirteen more ornaments, each one different and special, that Daddy has given Sonny every year since the first. One day Sonny will have them on his own tree.

Santa and Mrs. Claus

Did you know that Santa and Mrs. Claus lead secret, double lives? In addition to all that toy making business, the also serve up salt and pepper every year on my dining table. I can’t remember a Christmas without them.

Grapevine wreaths

I have grapevine wreaths made from grapevines I grew. Sometimes I put ribbons on them. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I leave them up all year ’round. Wish I could do the same thing with my Christmas lights, but the neighbors would talk.

My Christmas extravaganza

Speaking of lights, here are mine! White lights are elegant and all that, but I like the colored ones better and lots of them. I wish I had more lights this year. I also wish I had an extension ladder. And a staple gun. And the courage to climb up on the roof.

Here’s what I have.

Real Southern living. And that doesn’t make me sad at all. In fact, it makes me rather happy.

I’d like to share with you a story I wrote that was published today on Bourbon & Boots, a website that specializes in all things Southern. It’s called Merry and Bright: Why We Love to Bake With Booze, and you can find it right here: www.bourbonandboots.com/merry-and-bright.

Thank you all for reading this year and for your kind words, encouragement, and the stories that you have shared with me. I hope each and every one of you have a very safe, happy, and peaceful holiday.

Love and hugs,

Audrey

I remember one time when I was spending the night and Granny tried to make spaghetti for supper. Upon realizing that she was out of Ragu, she proceeded to pour a bottle of ketchup over the hot pasta. After all, tomato sauce is tomato sauce, right?

In theory, yes. In practice, no.

But there was one thing that Granny could make — fudge. And Granny didn’t make any old cop-out fudge. She made the hard kind on the Hershey’s Cocoa can (recipe below). The kind that requires one to intuit things like “soft ball stage.” The kind that, if you don’t hold your mouth just right, well, it winds up being nothing more than grainy ice cream topping.

Granny could make it every time! She never failed.

And it was Granny’s fudge that I looked forward to every Christmas. I would watch her slowly, constantly stirring stirring stirring the mixture. I would watch her let one drop slip off the end of the spoon into a glass of water. And I would watch her examine that drop to see if it sent the proper message of doneness.

If it was time, she would take the pot off the stove, add some butter and vanilla, and beat beat beat it with a wooden spoon until it started to look right. Into a buttered pan it would go, and a little while later it was a perfect square of fudge. Yum yum.

I still make fudge every Christmas because it reminds me of Granny. Unlike Granny, though, I cannot make the Hershey’s Cocoa recipe set up to save my life. I have problems with foods that must “set” — any sort of Jello dish usually defeats me.

I use the Carnation Classic Five-Minute Fudge recipe (also below). It’s a cop-out because it uses marshmallows and there are no ball stages or anything terribly complicated involved. I don’t care. It has never failed.

Now just about every year it winds up that I only have one weekend with Sonny between Thanksgiving and Christmas because of a custody arrangement, bad luck, fate, and the alignment of the stars and planets. One piddlin’ weekend for us to pack in all the fun holiday things we want to do. One weekend. Two days.

In past years, when he was smaller, we’d go to The Birmingham Zoo‘s Zoolight Safari, we’d go visit Santa Claus, and we might go see a Christmas movie if one was playing. But this year, now that he’s a teenager, he didn’t want to do any of those things. “Well, what do you want to do this year?” I asked him. “What is the one special Christmas thing that you’d really like to do?”

“Can we make fudge?” he asked.

So make fudge we did. Since we are products of too much Food Network, we started Saturday morning planning what flavors we would make, as if plain fudge isn’t perfection. We dispensed with bacon (it’s been overdone) and margarita (couldn’t find lime flavoring), and we decided to try plain chocolate, chocolate jalapeño, peanut butter, dark chocolate cherry, white chocolate peppermint, chocolate chili, and s’more.

We made fudge all day long and into the evening. We made fudge until we were so tired and sticky we could hardly stand it. Some of the batches turned out great (you’d be surprised what a shot of Sriracha does to a recipe of fudge). Some not so great (apparently fudge flavored with maraschino cherry juice will never really set up, even if marshmallows are involved).  And there were some couldn’t help but be good (did I mention plain is always the best).

Sonny and I spent the day cooking and tasting. Measuring and stirring. Laughing and joking. We wound up covered in chocolate. We washed a mountain of dishes. We had to mop the floor. We ate fudge until we were nearly sick.

We spent the day — our day — making so much more than just fudge.

Hershey’s Cocoa Fudge

(from http://www.hersheys.com)

1. Line 8-or 9-inch square pan with foil, extending foil over edges of pan. Butter foil.
2. Mix sugar, cocoa and salt in heavy 4-quart saucepan; stir in milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture comes to full rolling boil. Boil, without stirring, until mixture reaches 234°F on candy thermometer or until small amount of mixture dropped into very cold water, forms a soft ball which flattens when removed from water. (Bulb of candy thermometer should not rest on bottom of saucepan.)
3. Remove from heat. Add butter and vanilla. DO NOT STIR. Cool at room temperature to 110°F (lukewarm). Beat with wooden spoon until fudge thickens and just begins to lose some of its gloss. Quickly spread into prepared pan; cool completely. Cut into squares. Store in tightly covered container at room temperature. About 36 pieces or 1-3/4 pounds.NOTE: For best results, do not double this recipe. This is one of Hershey’s most requested recipes, but also one of the most difficult. The directions must be followed exactly. Beat too little and the fudge is too soft. Beat too long and it becomes hard and sugary.

Carnation Classic Five-Minute Fudge

(from http://www.carnationmilk.ca)

Ingredients:

• 2 Tablespoons butter or margarine
• 2/3 cup evaporated milk
• 1-1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 cups (4 ounces) miniature marshmallows
• 1-1/2 cups (9 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts, optional
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions:

1. Combine butter or margarine, evaporated milk, sugar, and salt in a medium, heavy-duty saucepan. Bring to a full rolling boil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Boil stirring constantly for 4 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat.
2. Stir in marshmallows, chocolate chips, nuts, and vanilla. Stir vigorously for 1 minute or until marshmallows are melted. Pour into a foiled-lined 8-inch square baking pan. Chill until firm.

“Go on; taste it!”

Now I don’t know about you, but I want to be able to readily identify my food. Even at a  young age, I didn’t think I should have to guess what exactly it was that I ingested. Plus, Aunt Lois had a history of cooking things that were, uh, a little too “organic” for my taste.

For instance, I was at her house one day near lunchtime and naturally the talk turned to what we should fix to eat. Unable to decide, we did what every self-respecting Southerner might do when on the horns of such a dilemma — we went out to the garage to plunder through the deep freeze, that enormous coffin-like receptacle for all things blanched and frozen, fishy or gamey, or just plain too unwieldy for your normal Frigidaire.

Aunt Lois dug past the fish filets, the venison steaks, and even some frog legs and pulled out a freezer bag. “Let’s eat this!” she said holding the bag up with something near glee in her eyes. Before me dangled two little carcasses pressed flat in the plastic, nekkid, arms and legs akimbo almost like they were shocked to death and flash frozen in their surprise. “Squirrel!” And off she went in search of the chicken fryer. Squirrel. Oh my. Couldn’t we just have a tomato sandwich?

Flash forward to Thanksgiving. Aunt Lois shows up at Mama’s house with a huge roasting pan containing an unnaturally large roast smiggling around in some sort of au jus with a few onions and mushrooms. Once in the kitchen, she sets upon it with a vengeance, wildly hacking at it with a carving fork and a large blade akin to a machete.

“Taste it! Guess!”

I thought it better to guess before eating. Just in case. You never know with Aunt Lois. Hmmm, I thought to myself, what lives around here?

Goat? “No.”

Wild hog? “No.”

Deer? Please let it be deer. I’m running out of options. “No.”

I’d seen what I thought was a bear track once. Lord, I hope not. Bear? “No.”

“It’s MOOSE!” she finally exclaimed. “A gift from a friend of mine who went hunting out West!”

Moose. Have mercy. No wonder it was so dang big!

For the record, if any of you, my dear readers, perchance to go out West and think to bring me a gift, I’d much prefer something that either makes me look good (like jewelry) or smell good (like perfume). I would just as soon not be remembered with a hunk of dead animal flesh, thank you very much.

But the same can’t be said for Aunt Lois, once an ace hunter her ownself. Aunt Lois, who has a room full of mounted heads from deer she felled. Aunt Lois, sweet, flirty, mischievous. Aunt Lois, who can gut a fish or a squirrel or a deer without ever so much as chipping her frosty pink nail polish. Aunt Lois, who doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

So taste I did. Gray, dense, gamey, a little too chewy. But if you slog it through some gravy, like most not-quite-palatable things, it wasn’t half bad. In “The Maine Woods,” Henry David Thoreau likened moose to “tender beef, with perhaps more flavour; sometimes like veal.” I don’t know if I’d go that far, but after a good deal of mastication it did, ultimately, go down.

Thanks to Aunt Lois, I have had to be game (pun intended) to try any number of things that I probably would not have without her insistence. Among other things, I have picked shot off my plate, learned to ignore the fact that supper looked like Kermit from the waist down, and been educated as to the best way to pull the skin off a catfish. And I am a better person for it.

So here’s to mystery. Here’s to culinary adventure. And here’s to knowing what’s on your plate before the blessing is said. Happy Thanksgiving!

*Aunt Lois is actually my great aunt, Granny’s youngest sister.