Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Autumn/Fall (08/27/09)
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TITLE: Ketchup? | Previous Challenge Entry
By Matthew Eldridge
08/28/09 -
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Momma wasn’t much for words today. Poppa held her hand, which he never did. I could see tears coming down her face in the reflection of the car window. It was an odd, difficult day, to say the least. I wondered if momma was thinking what I was: This would be our last Thanksgiving at Grandmother’s house.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it. I could feel my chest tighten as my emotions welled up in my throat. I thought about seeing my cousins again, my crazy Jewish Uncle Barry, My Auntie Sue who called me her favorite li’l sack of potatoes, and my Aunt Judy.
I thought about the variety of southern foods that would grace the table: Sweet potato casserole, okra, greens, squash, corn, cranberry sauce, and cornbread. But grandmother’s famous turkey wouldn’t be there, to our chagrin. It’s funny that I felt this way, because for years I dreaded her overcooked bird.
Grandmother always feared undercooking the turkey, the result being a house full of guests swigging tea every three bites to get the desiccated meat down. I likened it to swallowing sand. Even the gravy wasn’t moist enough to help.
It was my seventh Thanksgiving that my Uncle Barry (by marriage) returned from the fridge with a bottle of ketchup and proceeded to pour it all over his turkey. Needless to say, Grandmother was highly offended. He pulled out the “I’m Jewish” card. He smiled as the red clumps covered his meat. “I put ketchup on everything!” he explained. Being a Christian family, we had no idea about Jewish culture, or if he was even telling the truth.
Before my mom could stop me, I grabbed the bottle and painted my turkey a bloody-red as well. It worked. Thicker than gravy, the wet, tomato substance diluted the dry sand enough to get it down my esophagus. By the end of the meal, almost every family member under the age of thirty had ketchup on his or her turkey.
My grandmother’s face said it all. If looks could kill, Uncle Barry would be buried ten feet underground. How dare this Jewish man come into our home and sway all our young people! Uncle Barry just smiled at her and said, “It’s like the blood of Jesus! It covers a multitude of sins!”
At that point, I didn’t know if grandmother was laughing out of anger or because she found him amusing. After all, these were her very own words she spoke to him on many occasions. Ah! He was listening!
This became an annual tradition for our family. In fact, after that year, Grandmother would place the ketchup on the table herself, just to show Uncle Barry her acceptance of him.
We rolled into Grandmother’s driveway and I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. Grandmother was gone. She was with Jesus and Granddaddy. It was her house, but it would be empty without her.
We were warmly greeted by Auntie Sue, Cousin Donnie, Cousin Kim, and Aunt Judy, who had arrived at the same time. After a series of hugs, we made our way to the oak front door and Aunt Judy pulled out the key and opened it. I was the first inside.
I took in the smells of Grandmother’s house which triggered a flood of memories and emotions. My mom handed me a tissue and wrapped her arm around me as we glanced around the room together. Everything was still in place – her stereo from the 1950’s, her dark oak coffee table with Granddaddy’s Bible on top, the picture of the farm above the paisley blue couch, and her favorite books stacked beside it.
I glanced a little further to the dining room. Mom squeezed me tighter as we both noticed it at the same time. The dining room table was dressed with Grandmother’s favorite white table cloth and in the center if it was a bottle of Ketchup.
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