The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
When I married Allen, I had few cooking skills. My culinary repertoire leaned toward sides: salads and steamed or roasted veggies. I had recipes for no-bake desserts and simple casseroles for family gatherings.
Allen grilled, and I made a side. Done.
Our routine contrasted with how my mom and mother-in-law Willa thought we should do things.
Willa often chided me about my lack of interest in the kitchen.
She wasn’t wrong, but I had other passions. To compound difficulties, I preferred girly-girl activities, and she’d enjoyed sports and raised three rough-and-tumble boys. My modern thoughts often conflicted with her traditional ways.
Our relationship changed on a November morning when soft sunlight streamed into the kitchen.
Willa said, “Since your mom and dad are coming next weekend and not on Thanksgiving, why don’t we prepare a holiday meal?”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” I agreed.
“I’ll bring my dressing and a coconut cake,” she said. “You can bake the turkey and fix a side dish.”
I knew not to argue even though the thought of baking my first turkey terrified me, especially under the scrutiny of two experienced Southern cooks.
I had no illusions about becoming a home chef or a Suzy Homemaker. But my ego wouldn’t let me fail.
When I told Allen about the special meal, he raised his eyebrows.
“You’re baking the turkey?”
We both knew I had no clue how to select a turkey or the steps of the baking process.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a mischievous grin. “We have a fire extinguisher.”
“Very funny. But you’re more likely to need a blow torch to heat a still-frozen turkey.”
His jokes made me more determined to serve a moist, tender, perfect bird. So, I studied recipe books, sought advice from friends, and spoke to the meat manager at the grocery store, who guided me to the right turkey for a party of six.
As the weekend neared, I panicked. By chance, I noticed our monthly Upper Room devotional magazine. I flipped through the pages to calm my nerves and read:
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and sound mind” – 2 Timothy 1:7.
I immediately replaced my fear with a “feast mode” attitude. I could use this learning experience to grow my cooking skills, bake this turkey, and provide a nice meal for my family.
Before Mom and Dad arrived on Friday after work, I prepared a veggie casserole and decorated the table with a fall centerpiece. I set out my gleaming white china, sparkling crystal glasses, and shiny silver flatware.
The following day, I climbed out of bed in the darkness while everyone slept to finalize the turkey preparations.
Notes of aromatic spices and herbs wafted through the house all morning while soft music played in the background.
I heard, “Knock, knock,” as Willa and Papa James opened the back door.
I rushed to accept her warm pan of dressing wrapped in a dishtowel. It smelled divine.
I said a quick prayer the turkey would live up to expectations.
I banned everyone from the kitchen and told them to relax while Willa and I finished the last-minute details.
The timer buzzed. My heart pounded. The tension in the kitchen pulsed as we stood shoulder to shoulder. I eased the oven door open. Powerful hot air hit our faces as I pulled the rack out.
“It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed, staring at the golden turkey.
I attempted to pull the pan out when Willa reached, too.
The pan wobbled. The turkey slid out and hit the floor with a splat.
The earth stood still.
Our eyes bugged out, but we remained silent.
In a flash, Willa scooped the turkey up and dashed to the sink.
“Quick,” she said, “turn on the water.”
We rinsed the affected side, patted it dry, and placed it on my large serving platter.
With nerves frayed, we burst out laughing. Tears streamed down our faces as we tried to get things under control.
Willa mopped the floor as I plated the turkey, adding sprigs of herbs, orange slices, and cranberries to create a festive plate.
I held my breath during lunch as Allen carved the turkey and served it to everyone.
Cutlery clinked against plates, and Mom said, “It’s so moist and tender. Great job, Debbie.”
Willa and I couldn’t make eye contact without giggling. I felt a connection with her I’d missed.
Pure joy enveloped me. I’d baked the turkey. Me. With God’s help, I’d worked through my fear and remained calm, not letting a mishap spoil the day.
Fear doesn’t come from God. He gives us the tools to step out of our comfort zone and grow. Sometimes, this creates a lasting bond between a new wife and her husband’s mother.
Over the years, I’ve learned what Willa wanted me to understand when she pushed me to bake my first turkey. Holiday gatherings are a lot of work, but the extra effort of home-cooked meals means love.
Now, I cook to control ingredients, experiment with flavors, and show my love by providing healthy meals. It’s my daily feast mode.
But I’ve realized what Mom and Willa knew: Food always tastes better when someone else makes it, especially during the holidays.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.