It’s Thanksgiving morning, the house smells like coffee and chaos, and I’ve just wrapped up making my famous Belgian waffles for the family. (Yes, Belgian, not Belgium—though if the country itself ever wants to send me a thank-you note, I’ll allow it.)
I wasn’t planning to write today, but somewhere between the waffle iron hissing and me burning the roof of my mouth on “just one test bite,” my mind wandered back to Mom and the Thanksgivings of my childhood.
My mother treated the Thanksgiving dinner plate like an artist’s palette. Everything had to be colorful—strategically colorful. If there was a job description for “Director of Vegetable Aesthetics,” she held the title for life. You could bet the farm you’d see carrots (orange), mashed potatoes (white), turnips (off-white but she claimed it counted), green beans or broccoli (green), candied yams (bright orange), and of course, turkey or ham. She always made a ham “just in case someone didn’t like turkey,” even though no one in our family had ever expressed such a scandalous preference.
And God help you if you asked her for “a little of everything.” Because Florence took requests literally.
I can still picture my grandfather seeing his plate coming down the table—stacked high like a culinary skyscraper—and immediately protesting:
“Sit down, Pa, I’ll make you a dish,” she’d say.
“Florence, that’s too much.”
“Eat what you can, Pa, and leave the rest.”
And somehow—mysteriously, miraculously—he always finished it. Grandma too. I’m not saying my mother ran a clean-plate cult, but the evidence was… compelling.
Honestly, the amount of food could’ve fed the Green Bay Packers if they stopped by. (I’ll admit it—we weren’t Patriot fans back then. But seriously, who was?)
For me, nearly everything on the plate was great—except the turnips. I couldn’t understand their bitterness. I still can’t. Maybe turnips are like scotch: an acquired taste. Except I did acquire a taste for scotch. Turnips? Hard pass.
All of this, strangely enough, reminded me of the bears in Yellowstone during a Hunt’s Photo Adventure with Don Toothaker. I mean, I knew bears were omnivores, but watching them root around—digging up plants and inhaling them like furry vegetarians with a vengeance—made me appreciate just how important a balanced diet is.
So this Thanksgiving, in honor of Mom, the bears, and digestive systems everywhere, I’ll be eating all the vegetables Trish puts on my plate. Every single one.
Spoiler alert: Trish does not make turnips. God bless that woman.
Wishing you all a peaceful day of gratitude, family, and post-feast recovery.
Happy Thanksgiving—and happy digestion.
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