Christianity/Religion Family Holidays

My Favorite Leftovers

Not claiming to remember each one in particular, I yet believe this Thanksgiving has been the best of my life–at least I cannot think of such an occasion that supersedes this one. From time to time, an event argues to be poetry; its being smacks of moonlight slanting at sea water or cottages set in deep meadow. Such celebration becomes the benchmark for future events. These past few days have been of that kind. (Always extremely thoughtful and polite, Melina brought these adorable owls and turkeys. On her site, she tells how to make them.)

The pleasure began early, when last Sunday evening Andrew and his family arrived, wagging in luggage, grinning, hugging, and with the five children quickly scattering about our home since they visit here frequently and know they have the run of the place, including the “secret room,” the game room, and the picture room. Actually, the earliest pleasure had been the moment  I knew all four of our children would be coming for Thanksgiving. Already I knew my brother was flying in from Chile, my step mom was coming from Missouri, and two of my nieces were traveling from Pennsylvania. It would be a rare Thanksgiving. (Pictured here are my children, their spouses, my brother, Farrell, Jr. on one end, my step mom on the other end.)

Although we strayed a bit from the master scheme, I had planned all the meals, beginning with chicken tacos on Sunday evening, roast beef on Monday, ham on Tuesday. . .Yeast rolls ready for the oven were in the freezer, as were three pie crusts, cookie dough of four varieties, frozen cranberry salad, and Miss. Hulling’s squash and apple casserole, a dish so delicious that from the cafeteria where I first ate of the delectable concoction, I bought a cookbook just for that recipe, and without which I cannot image a Thanksgiving dinner in the Gerald Buxton home. On the bread shelf was a bulging bag of crumbled cornbread and a few biscuits ready to be developed into dressing for the turkey and over which would be spooned giblet gravy.

We had The Plan. I had cleaned every nook and cranny of the house (well, almost, for to be honest, I can think of a few hidden spots that could stand a bit more “spit and polish”) made lists, arranged tablecloths, napkins, centerpieces and considered seating arrangements. I had shopped. A lot. More than once. Yet, when Rebecca called on her way up and inquired, I said, “Yes, please stop at the grocers and bring these things,” as I read from the list in the little book that resides on the shelf near the fridge.

On Monday morning, I was disappointed to learn that Andrew had to go to San Diego to finish up some of his jobs (construction work), and would be back by Tuesday evening, but while it was yet daylight on Monday, here he came, some development having given him the option of being here the rest of the week. Yes! On Tuesday, a baking mood enveloped him and Gentry. They took over the kitchen and produced some tasty goodies, including these fine sugar cookies. Then–if you can believe it–there was a distinct possibility we would run short on butter, so off to the store again went Andrew. Butter, more milk. . .

By Wednesday evening everyone had arrived–from San Diego, Lake Havasu, Chile, Missouri and Pennsylvania–we were all here. Festivities swelled into high gear; from the game room the youngsters brought down puzzles to spread about on the dining room table and stuffed animals were retrieved from the secret room to be scattered about the house. (Pictured above are my niece and great niece, Sandy and Moriah, and my beautiful daughter, Rebecca.) We ate. And again, we ate. Spaghetti and meatballs on Wednesday served up with the most delicious bread of Melina’s preparation, hot from the oven, running with cheese and herbs. Sandy, my niece from Pennsylvania, had presented herself at the door with large boxes from The Cheesecake Factory, and because my ample fridge was bulging, we utilized my  “winter refrigerator”–the back deck table. Three ice chests also sat there for two turkeys and a massive prime rib roast were doing their deal with brine solutions and handsome rubs.

Balderdash–the funniest family game we play, and from which uproarious laughter has been known to cause the temporary, but absolute, loss of breath. Some also played Apples to Apples, Scrabble, and upstairs the youngsters played some kind of card game, and maybe Twister, for I recall seeing parts of that game once during these happy days.

Steve bought and cooked the spectacular standing rib roast in the house oven, while in a Chinese turkey roaster, Mike cooked the two turkeys he had bought in Lake Havasu.

Chloe whipped up the mashed potatoes, Shawnna added her famous green beans, Melina’s chutney, the dressing and gravy were finished, the rolls cooked . . .

Black Friday sales snagged some of the bunch, some had to make airport runs, and while they were gone down the hill, others of us–the wise ones– began thinking of food–in particular the large prime ribs which Steve had removed before slicing up the meat the day before. Light the grill, he said to his dad, and in a short while we were sitting around the kitchen bar chowing down on prime rib bones; succulent bones–some naked, some with a BBQ sauce Steve had whipped together. One rib was left in the pan, when my brother and my step mom knocked on the door, and perhaps looking slightly sheepish, probably with BBQ sauce on our faces, we insisted Junior indulge by taking the last rib. With little persuasion, he hiked himself onto a bar stool.

I would speak of the killer French dip sandwiches we had on Saturday with the remaining beef, or of the straight from the oven oatmeal and ginger cookies we ate gathered about the oven, or of the apricot and cherry stollen, but I must stop. This has gone on too long and I want to speak of leftovers . . . except that first I want to show you a picture of my granddaughter Sarah who came to visit on Friday afternoon. . . and the light was streaming through the window perfectly, and she is so beautiful. . . and spontaneously she arranged her arm and smiled.

Some believe leftovers are the best: I agree. My favorite leftovers, however, are not what one might expect. They are neither of roasted meat or dressing or gravy or warmed yeast rolls or chilled pumpkin pie. My favorite leftovers are those in my mind; the memories I retain, the sights and sounds of my children now grown, and of their children still small and middle-sized, but then there are Chloe who is 16 and Gentry who is taller than his Pappy and whose voice has changed since last Thanksgiving. . .who is almost a man, and Sarah with Gage, our only great-grandchild who was able to come for Thanksgiving.

My leftovers include visions of every bedroom full, Mike and Melina sleeping on a blow-up mattress on the floor in the game room, couches full, and youngsters dragging around quilts and pillows as someone made them a bed somewhere. My leftovers call up the crooked wreath on the stair wall glimmering with Christmas lights, but with a few ears of Indian corn tied on as a nod to Thanksgiving. Wood stacked. Wood carried in. Blazing fires all day and into the night.

My favorite leftovers are memories of Jerry speaking to us, and his becoming teary, and his prayer before we ate our beautiful meal; of the moments we  gathered about Shawnna–adults and children alike– to pray, as she had been sick for a couple of days. My favorite leftovers include the short conversations I had with some of you, my children, about God and His work and our place in it. My favorite leftovers are recalling the spontaneous hugs and words of love I saw you give; of hearing that Jessica must be admitted to the hospital and that in a short while we would have our 9th great-grandchild, and that Mike’s face was worried, and that he said we should pray for her. My leftovers include Andrew–the last to leave–as he sat with his wife and children in the living room and asked Jerry and me to pray for his family.

Leftovers. Abundant, delicious leftovers. In my mind. In my spirit.

My Family

A Back-look at Thanksgiving

Whoa! I became so busy and so involved with other people and so happy! about everything that I have not posted  for days. Here goes the catch-up.


Andrew had said they would be up on either Tuesday or Wednesday and when Jerry called him a couple of times, only to get his voicemail, and we heard nothing back, I figured they weren’t coming until Wednesday. I had done major shopping on Friday: It took going to three stores to get everything I needed; Costco, WalMart, and Stater’s (a local grocery chain.) Our checking account took a drastic nosedive, but by Friday evening, our larder had been well stocked. We were set. I had done lots of prep–cornbread for the dressing cooked and frozen, giblets cooked and chopped, squash and apple casserole prepared and frozen, cranberries cooked, pumpkin roll baked and frozen, a couple of pie crusts prepared and in the freezer, two bags of cut and seasoned apples from our tree ready to be plopped into a crust, and a couple of loaves of banana bread also in the freezer. The house had been cleaned (again!), and all the silver polished. In a plastic cooking bag, Tom Turkey was wallowing in his briny solution inside a white ice chest out on our back deck. Extra milk and juice were also out there, and it stayed so cold, we began referring to the deck as our walk-in cooler.

I was in the kitchen cleaning up from our lunch when Jerry said, “Andrew’s here.” And so he was…and so began the party. Andrew and Shawnna and their five beautiful youngsters stormed up the stairs, hugging and kissing and shivering. “It’s cold, Granny.” Andrew had brought a trailer full of wood and rather soon the men and boys were unloading and stacking more than a cord of wood, and shortly after that the fireplace was roaring.

Friendly scold to Andrew from Mom: “You didn’t let me know you were coming today, so I don’t have a big meal prepared.” I had given some thought, though, to the need for an extra dinner and we whipped up choriso, eggs, heated up some pinto beans I had cooked the day before, and slapped flour tortillas onto a hot black skillet. Pretty yummy.

In our upstairs area, there is a big closet off the balcony that contains plastic tubs of Legos and other building materials for the youngsters. It also houses stacks of quilts, blankets, inflatable mattresses, mattress pads, sheets and pillows. When we have lots of family visiting, from this closet, the visiting mamas and the children select their bedding material, after which they search for the most appealing floor area, and there plop down their bed. Couches throughout the house are fair game for sleeping places, too, but the youngsters understand the adults have first dibs on beds and couches.


Shawnna and Chloe drove down the hill for some shopping, bringing back Nathaniel and Wes Girt, a young man who attended our Christian school when we pastored in Rialto. We had been communicating with him over the phone and the internet, but this was the first time we had seen him in probably 15 years. Amazing. He is no longer a slight, sweet (and a bit rambunctious) youngster, but was a broad, burley, grown-up with great principles and passion. We had a tremendous visit with him. He brought gifts, his old school jacket, and we laughed together over the yearbooks he lugged in.

Early in the morning I had placed a boneless pork loin roast in a slow cooker, I had snapped and cooked fresh green beans,  Shawnna had peeled potatoes to cook with the beans, I had made a great salad, and we had begun bringing out the desserts. Then came the mess, Rebecca arriving right in the middle of it. Mess? Yep, a mess, for suddenly as I turned on the garbage disposal, all it did was whirl about. Nothing would go down. Jerry plunged. Andrew plunged. I fummed. Nothing. Remember, tomorrow would be Thanksgiving, and remember we have many people to feed tonight, including Wes. Finally we determined it was the garbage disposal, after Andrew had turned it on again, and it sounded like clanging metal. Jerry called Ace Hardware, and yes, they had a unit that would work, and they were open until 7:00. Dinner was now on hold. Andrew’s head was under the sink, all the cleaning supplies were spread out on the floor, our sweet guest Wes was now in the kitchen, when suddenly water began pouring all over. I ran to the laundry area and came back with a purple bucket, and now the disposal wouldn’t turn off. The switch did nothing. Andrew pulled out the power cord. Cut to the chase…After Andrew disconnected the pipe under the sink, he began removing rocks and more rocks. We’ll never know exactly, but utility workers had been active out on the street, and Wes conjectured that somehow rocks had got in the pipes and come into our water supply. We all pitched in to clean everything up, the water was draining properly, but now the garbage disposal wouldn’t turn on, even though it had again been connected to power. “Oh, well,” I said. “As long as the sink is draining we can get by.” Strange thing; I believe it was after dinner that someone flipped the switch, and the garbage disposal hummed right along, doing its job perfectly. Hasn’t missed a lick since.

Sometime in the late morning we had received a call from Chris and Joel, our grandsons who live in Carson City, Nevada, and who had planned to be with us for Thanksgiving. Between them they have five children. A fierce storm had blown in, it was 1 below zero, and they would have to drive nearly 200 miles with chains on to get here for Thanksgiving. It would just be too much, so they weren’t able to make it.


It was a wonderful day. In the late morning Andrew, Shawnna, their boys and Nathaniel went for a hike in the woods, and around 4:00 we ate dinner. As has become a tradition, Chloe prepared the mashed potatoes, all the way from the peeling, to mounding them into the bowl, and with a bit of help, Gentry made the yeast rolls. I gave Brady a hand at preparing a delicious coconut-cream pie. He was so proud. Rebecca had brought two pumpkin pies, and now finished up a cherry pie. Included in our 2010 Thanksgiving dinner was a smoked brisket, whisked all the way down from Branks BBQ in Sumner, Washington.

In the evening we played Balderdash, our favorite family game…and then enough time had passed so that we could eat another smidgen of dressing and gravy and pumpkin pie and a heated yeast roll and our incredible cranberry salad.


Andrew, Shawnna, Chloe, Rebecca and Nathaniel trekked down to indulge in Black Friday activities. I dug into the Christmas decorations closet, and Ella and I draped and swatched and wrapped the house in Christmas. By the time everyone returned, Santa was dancing and singing, the shepherds were watching, and snowmen were grinning. Ella loved this. As soon as she would find a place for one thing, she would rush back to the closet for more. At one point, she rounded up several things, and wrapped them in a blanket, carrying them about as a doll.

Somewhere in all this there arose a few checker games. Cole is the acclaimed family champion–poses a challenge to almost any adult.

I’ll close this Thanksgiving ramble with showing Chloe and Pappy engaging in Tinkertoy construction. She is three years old. Her pappy is nearly eighty.

More pictures at my Flickr account.

Rebecca, Nathaniel and Andrew’s Chloe left on Friday. On Sunday afternoon Andrew and his family packed their things, thanked us, kissed us, and hugged us…and then they were gone. Quiet now. Stone quiet. Too quiet.


I have important things to say about families and holidays that I had planned to include here, but this has gone on long enough. I’ll write my heart tomorrow.

(Shawnna is the one who took this delightful picture of Ella-Claire and Pappy.)