Cornbread Dressing and Love

In the past, Thanksgiving usually meant traveling to my in-laws to celebrate with my husband’s family. Like most other families, the Thanksgiving meal, and in particular my mother-in-law’s cornbread dressing, was a highly anticipated part of the day. When the meal was over and the time came to travel back home, styrofoam or plastic containers filled with leftover dressing accompanied us.

A few years ago, we made the trip minus my oldest son who was unable to join us. When the time came for us to pack up and leave, my mother-in-law presented me with a separate, untouched dish of dressing. With a mischievous grin she held out the Corningware loaf pan and said, “Tell Sam this is his inheritance.”

She was joking of course, and we had a good laugh about it. Needless to say, my son was very happy to receive a pan of dressing all to himself. When the last of it had been eaten, I washed the dish and tucked it away knowing someday my son would take it with him to his own home.

Last year, my mother-in-law left us two days before Thanksgiving. Only a few short weeks earlier, we’d discovered she was sick. Now, she was gone. With all that must have been going through her mind as Thanksgiving drew near and her body grew weak, she wanted to make sure we’d have her cornbread dressing for Thanksgiving.

She guided my sisters-in-law through the process, periodically leaving the comfort of her recliner to taste it and advise them on adjustments. When it was just right, into the freezer it went, on hold until Thanksgiving. We’d hoped to all be able to have everyone together for what would be her last Thanksgiving, but it wasn’t to be. Instead, we had a small, quiet gathering. As we sat together, eating cornbread dressing and sharing memories, we experienced both my mother-in-law’s absence and her presence.

Many times, I’ve thought of the loaf pan with the blue cornflower pattern, filled with so much more than cornbread dressing. I remember her outstretched arms, offering a dish she’d poured something of herself into. A container full of warmth and richness and love. Quite the inheritance, indeed.

In loving memory of Sue Jo Sexton Miller. August 1, 1933 - November 22, 2022