I’ll (Never) Bring the Potatoes

“I’ll bring the potatoes” is something I’ve never said, and I’m certain I won’t say again during the month of November for a long, long time. Not since I was put on potato probation.

A year ago, my dear mom had a farm accident and spent a significant amount of time recovering in bed. When Thanksgiving rolled around, it was clear her Norman Rockwell-style holiday wouldn’t be happening in the house that built me.

So, the youngest daughter stepped in, determined to make Mom’s Thanksgiving traditional, at home, and just as memorable. Boy, was it.

First, I invited my siblings and their families.

“Despite Mom’s leg, Thanksgiving must go on! I’m hosting a traditional Bowman Thanksgiving at the farm and I’ll prepare all the food! Come hungry!”

They didn’t respond for three days.

Finally…

Sister: Sorry, Linds. I invited my in-laws up for Thanksgiving. We won’t make it out.

Only moments later:
Brother: Dad and I plan to head west to a Shorthorn sale that weekend and won’t be in the state.

I found it ironic that neither had missed a Thanksgiving Mom prepared in 40+ years, but when little sister took over the kitchen, everyone suddenly fled the area like fugitives.

Their loss, I thought. The show must go on.

In the weeks that followed, I crafted a menu that mirrored Mom’s traditional fare. I came to realize just how much work she had put into every Thanksgiving dinner for the last four decades. Wow. And I was only feeding my family of four and Mom.

Finally, the day arrived. I showed up early, unloaded ingredients, and got things rolling. I didn’t pack staples like flour, sugar, or salt, my thrifty parents buy in bulk and store everything in large, well-sealed jars with white lids in their pantry. If the world goes (even more) crazy next week, they’ll be just fine.

Meal prep went smoothly, except for the sweet potato casserole. I used the Pioneer Woman’s recipe from the plains of Oklahoma, so I was certain it would fit right in as we dined overlooking Shorthorn cattle grazing on cornstalks just outside the window.

I was wrong.

I extended the baking time 5, 10, 15 minutes, and those darn potatoes never bubbled, never signaled that the sugar was baking through. Everything else was ready. The kids were hungry. Mom was out of bed and at the table with her leg propped up. My husband was checking football scores. It was time.

I finally pulled the dish, beautifully browned on top, and placed it on the festive table. I removed my apron and stood in awe. I had recreated Mom’s Thanksgiving table, and she didn’t have to lift a finger. Just a leg.

We weren’t two minutes into the meal before I realized I had it in the air, but I just couldn’t land it.

“Lindsay,” Mom said, just before taking a big gulp of water. “Have you tried the potatoes?”

“Not yet,” I smiled, knowing that was the dish she was most excited about.

“Lindsay,” she repeated, “Did you put salt in the potatoes?”

“Sure did,” I said confidently. “One teaspoon.”

“Lindsay,” she said again, “Please taste the sweet potatoes.”

Now, I’ve never licked a salt block out in our cow pasture, but I imagine it would be a lot like my 2024 Thanksgiving sweet potato casserole. It was burn-your-tongue salty.

I jumped out of my chair and ran to the pantry to show my audience what salt I’d used. One teaspoon, and it ruined the whole dish!

“Are you sure that’s not sugar?” my husband, the annoying voice of reason in my life for twelve years, asked.

He was right. Instead of one teaspoon of salt and one cup of sugar, I’d switched the two. I dumped in one teaspoon of sugar and one cup of salt into Mom’s most anticipated dish. That explained why it never bubbled.

The five of us finished the meal, trying to make small talk while refilling water glasses. I learned that day that you must be careful who you trust – salt and sugar sure looking the same. Also, labels matter.

My sister is hosting Thanksgiving this year and I’ve been asked to bring ice. Sounds easy enough.