Thanksgiving 2018

Yesterday, we made our annual pilgrimage to Jincy's Country Kitchen in Qualls, Oklahoma for our Thanksgiving celebration.  We have done this now for more years than I remember.  I won't repeat the comments of years past praising the wonderful food, the joy of the drive through the hills, etc.  I've already said that too many times in the past HERE, HERE, and HERE.

This year was the same as years past.  We were greeted by hugs and handshakes as always from Debbie the owner and fellow pilgrims we have met in years past.  Sheila and I shared the "gunfighters table" with an officer of the local justice system and his wife that we knew from previous years.  This year, the older members of the Cherokee celebrity Baker clan occupied the large table near the window their family always takes.  I suspect that the Chief and his closer entourage were scheduled for the next seating.  Debbie always serves two or three seatings depending on demand.

Every year, I ask myself the same questions.  Why do we keep coming back?

To start with the food is very good.  It is old fashioned Okie hill country home cooking done very well indeed.  The service is superb.  Debbie is a gifted hostess as well as a talented chef.  She always has an individual greeting for every person and seems to genuinely care that they enjoy not only their meal but also their time in her kitchen.

But, there is something far deeper going on.  I noticed this year that after the first or second greeting Sheila and I both shed our clipped, fast Tulsa business accent and slipped back into the slow, deep, hill country drawl that is our native tongue.  We were both almost taken aback by the old fashioned southern manners shown by everyone around us.  When Sheila thanked one gentleman for standing and pulling out her chair for her as we approached the table he simply replied, almost wistfully, "Thank my mama.  That's  how she raised me."

Debbie makes no bones about her faith.  She announces firmly before the meal that "we say grace in this house."  The oldest person in the room normally asks the blessing unless the Chief is present in which case the honor goes to him.  This year it was the senior matron of the Baker Clan.

Upon reflection, I keep going back because for an hour I can taste the tastes and smell the smells of the Thanksgivings of my youth.  I can visit a place where it is OK to say grace, call women "maam," and be an old fashioned alpha male gentleman. For an hour, I can fondly visit the memory of the incredibly kind  Cherokee great aunts and uncles that raised my father and were the only family from his side that I ever knew.  For an hour, I can relax and be the man that mom and dad raised me to be.

For an hour, I get to go home.