Each year when Thanksgiving approaches, I give serious thought to launching a campaign to outlaw cellophane bags that contain turkey stuffing! There is something un-American about the soggy mass which results when one dutifully adds water and a little margarine to dried crumbs. I am sure that the creative wizards of those cellophane bags and their contents have made a significant contribution toward simplifying Thanksgiving, but in the process, they have thoroughly disillusioned the small boy who still lives within me.

The only time my father cooked was on the eve of Thanksgiving. That night he directed with infinite care a family project to prepare what seemed like gallons of stuffing. Bread was carefully cubed, celery cut, a few onions added, then the mix was deliciously fried in real butter. The resulting aroma is a cherished memory. 

After the frying, the moment of truth arrived. Could we actually get all that stuffing into the turkey? Much to my mother’s distress, we usually could not. Undaunted, my father simply baked great pans of stuffing outside the turkey. Although he would never admit it, I think he enjoyed the stuffing more than the turkey, and he was content to have stuffing in any form for weeks to come. 

Such memories lead me to wonder if we have not lost in our pop-tart, cellophane bag society some of the simple things which finally give texture to life. Some of life and living have slipped through our hands in our rush to simplify and sanitize. Perhaps, we have been told so often that modern is best that we have let too much of the past drift away, almost forgotten and uncelebrated. 

I suppose some would reply that such sentiments and remembrances are “heavy.” I guess I am guilty as charged, but then, the real stuffing of life is very serious business, indeed.