Too many cooks in the kitchen? Holiday crunch makes room for love

Too many cooks spoil the sauce. Carol Brady, television’s chipper TV mom, would have disagreed. She liked having extras in the kitchen. Housekeeper Alice shooed the kids out the door with bag lunches and dreamed up the evening menu. Husband Mike handled the grill and helped with the grocery patrol. That left Carol to toss a salad every three episodes and look wise over her coffee cup while Alice scurried about.

My mother harrumphed and exited for the laundry room whenever mini-skirted Carol popped up on the tube. But she and Carol did have something in common: a six-month supply of java and a crowd in the kitchen, especially during the holidays.

Mom wasn’t the helpless type. Still, Nannie (her mother) would bustle in on December 24, sure that her daughter could not pull off Christmas dinner without assistance. Never mind that Mom had prepared thousands of meals for her husband, five children, and neighborhood stragglers.

My mother surrendered the kitchen on Christmas Eve day so Nannie could concoct oyster stew to be eaten after evening church services. The minute Dad showed up with cartons of fresh Alabama-harvested Eastern oysters—plump and sweet with just-right saltiness—she snatched them for inspection. “Wha-a-at go-uh-je-us oi-uh-stuh-yuhs [what gorgeous oysters],” she exclaimed, her Georgia accent rising full and R-less from her throat, tinged with Upcountry South Carolina flourishes.

Nannie simmered these delicacies in a golden broth of milk and butter seasoned with onion, celery, and pepper. The family’s seafood aficionados (including yours truly) sidled up and jealously counted the number she ladled into each bowl.

After the family rampage through toys, stockings, and tissue wrappings on Christmas morning, Dad whipped up the breakfast casserole. This culinary tradition of buttered bread cubes—topped with crumbled, brown sausage, sharp cheddar cheese, and a mixture of brown eggs, milk, dry mustard, salt, and pepper—puffed golden brown in the oven. Along with buttermilk biscuits and red-eye gravy, it staved off hunger until the afternoon feast.

Nannie offered her services, but he waved her off, quoting Miss Nellie (our great-aunt): “I’ll thank you for your space.”

Later in the day, Dad shifted into showoff mode. For the dressing, he baked cornbread flavored with onions and celery. Then he crumbled and mixed it with biscuits, dried sage harvested from the herb patch, and turkey drippings—once baked, another golden-brown triumph.

Nannie got busy rearranging the just-loaded dishwasher. It was a habit, as she believed no one else, even my mother, had equal talent for wedging in a record number of plates, pots, pans, glasses, mugs, and silverware.

Then, popping up on one side of the counter, she would ask whether the dressing was moist enough. Should Dad add more drippings? Did it need more pepper? He politely thanked her for her space and proceeded to prepare rich, savory giblet gravy.

All the while, my mother smiled broadly and said little. She never minded the extra hands, as she prepared the turkey, side dishes, and pecan and lemon pies.

When I cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner in grad school, my long-distance bill totaled over $50, as Mom dictated the family recipes and tips, with multiple callbacks. How successful? My guests—fellow scholars happy for a free meal—were a charitable lot.

Years ago, our extended family assembled a spiral-bound cookbook replete with stories and recipes for beverages, appetizers, soups, salads, breads, main dishes, sides, condiments, and sweets. My copy is a little stained and the back cover rippled from spilled liquids. The Greatest Generation is gone, yet you glimpse their dimples, smiles, eyes, and hands in the brood of “grands and great-grands.”

As I head to Atlanta with the tried-and-true broccoli recipe (you might call mushroom soup and Duke’s mayo its secret sauce ), memories are fresh. What I wouldn’t give for Nannie to sweep up the crumbs on the counter and rearrange the dishwasher—just one more time.