I know what you’re thinking. MORBID!

But I don’t feel morbid at all.

I feel excitement.

I’m looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with my grandmother.

The big day is almost upon me, and I’m excited about sharing it with a lot of the people I love the most and who will help to make my Thanksgiving special, including my deceased grandmother Mammy (MayMe).

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that my grandmother was the matriarch and head honcho of my family of four women, which consisted of Grammy Nadeau (my great-grandmother), Mammy, Mommy, and me.

Now that I have finally published my second book, The Day It Snowed Popcorn; I’ve started on my third, a cookbook titled Tu Me Manques.

When I first thought about what the title of my cookbook would be, Tu Me Manques was the name that kept churning around in my head over and over again.

There was another possible title that kept creeping into my psyche as well: Mon Petit Chou.

Mon Petit Chou was my grandmother’s pet name for me, which means “My Little Cabbage.”

As a kid, I wasn’t thrilled about being compared to a gassy vegetable, but Mammy said it with such affection that I begrudgingly grew to accept her quirky nickname for me.

Now, I revere the pet name and wish I could hear her say it to me one last time.

While it became a choice between the two titles, Tu Me Manques seemed to be the most fitting name for my book of Mammy’s recipes.

This deeper connotation perfectly sums up my sentiment about Mammy.

Sorry if this tu me manques business is going on too long.

But I’m not sorry that I found the phrase.

Because it almost makes my grief explainable. I’m almost able to put the pain and loss of Mammy into words.

Whatever the translation, the title Tu Me Manques is a done deal.

I was once asked what I would like to have as my last meal, and my quick reply was:

Anything made by Mammy.

Trying to recreate the foods my grandmother cooked is to celebrate her and to forever preserve her memory through the taste and smell of her recipes.

Mammy served up lots of kisses, lots of good advice with a constant side of delicious and comforting food.

My daughter Ariel once asked me if I had any recipes handwritten by Mammy.

Unfortunately, the answer is no.

French was Mammy’s first language, and she was just fifteen when her father was rendered a vegetable from a traumatic brain injury.

As a result, she was pulled out of school to help work the farm and take care of her younger siblings. She was one of ten kids; one died at birth.

Mammy was barely able to read or write in English, so I have nothing left of her handwriting at all.

I once had a birthday card, but during an unfortunate time in my life, it went missing.

Mammy wasn’t literate, but she was one hell of a cooker.

Unfortunately, her recipes were all in her head and never written down, except by me over the years.

When my grandmother died in 1983, so did all of her recipes.

I have spent the better part of the last 36 years trying to recreate them.

So today, when I sat down to plan out my Thanksgiving dinner, Tue Me Manques, was what I wrote down.

What better time to start testing my memory of Mammy’s holiday foods, than a Thanksgiving gathering when family heirloom recipes are traditionally in abundance?

And as I chop and mix and bake, I’m sure I’ll give thanks to Mammy for believing in me and loving me the biggest and the best of anyone ever.

I spent a lifetime doubting myself, but I never doubted her love for me.

But mostly, I will thank her for the cherished memory of a woman who was broken time and time again, tested in ways that still bring me to tears.

And yet, she pulled herself up, stood tall (even though she was only a little over 5 feet), and always walked with dignity and pride.

And I will also thank her for the precious space she holds in my heart that’s filled with lessons taught of empathy and strength and resilience.

As I prepare Thanksgiving dinner this year, I know Mammy will be in the house.

And while I cook away, I’ll imagine Mammy at my side, guiding me along.

“Not so much of this. A little more of that. Don’t forget to taste everything.”

And I will fondly recall how we stood side by side, back in a time that is becoming harder and harder to remember, mixing and mashing, while my Mammy would tell me stories of young love and yesterdays, sprinkled with her unforgettable giggle, a twinkle in her beautiful eyes and just a hint of regret.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mammy.

Tu me manques, mon petit chou.

The photograph above is my all-time favorite, the back story of which I will share more about later, so stick with me.

On November 13, I ranted about something Trumpian on Facebook, which prompted my dear and old college friend Ken to post this response: “I like it better when you are happy.”

Happy Teri seems like an oxymoron to me, although not quite at the jumbo shrimp level.

But Ken’s one-liner called me to happy action. Sort of.

Now, the last blog post I wrote back on October 17, was about My Elephant, which was not even close to happy.

So, in honor of Ken’s request, on November 14, I set to writing a happy Teri blog post.

November 14 turned into November 21, and then Thanksgiving arrived.

For those of you who are not in the know, holidays don’t make Teri happy.

So, I figured I would wait until early December to find my happy, but then, you know…those damn Christmas songs on FM 106.7 that I hate to listen to, but can’t stop myself from listening to, make anything remotely close to happy Teri, impossible.

Teri with her hands tightly glued to the steering wheel bawling her eyes out, while weepily singing ♪Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire ♪ would not make Ken proud.

I promised myself—for Ken—that I would not write another post unless it contained some morsel of happy Teri.

(FYI: I have never gone this long without blogging, so thanks for nothing, Ken.)

Fast forward to Christmas Eve, and here I am still searching for any flicker of happy for my next blog post.

Flicker?  Just writing the word has me teetering toward the dark side.

It’s Christmas Eve. You know what that means—the dreaded flickering yule log. Just thinking about those wretched logs perfectly burning in that perfect fireplace makes me well up with unhappiness.

So here I am sitting at my desk at 4:38 pm on Christmas Eve, and I’m struggling Ken.

Almost ready to throw in the happy towel, I look around my desk and think that maybe something might give.

And there it is. Sitting right in front of me on my desk, in all its glory.

The fave photo of me with my grandmother, Mammy (pronounced May-Me), given to me in 2001 by my aunt—the first time I met my father’s family.

I had never seen the photo before, and I was obsessed with it for so many reasons, and on so many levels.

But mostly because I saw a happy Teri.  Okay, I wasn’t full-on smiling, but oh my, look at that grin.

Now mind you, I’m sure at whatever age I was in the photo, I didn’t know anything about happiness.  It seems to me that being happy is an adult obsession.

My aunt presented the black and white photo to me at a lunch she hosted at her home with my other aunt and three of my half-siblings for what I assumed was our first-ever meeting.

It was an out of body experience for sure.

But even weirder than meeting my aunts and siblings at forty-eight years old was that photograph of Mammy and me in front of a Christmas tree.

My eldest aunt explained in meticulous detail that the photo was taken at my grandmother’s apartment on Huron Street. (Now for any of you that know me or have read my posts, Huron Street does not make Teri happy.)

She went on to tell me a lovely Christmas Eve story about my two aunts being there, as well as my Uncle Lou (whom I met at age seven under an extremely violent circumstance), and my mom.

I fingered the photo gently. I traced my grandmother’s heart-shaped face juxtaposed to my chubby round one.

I spoke out loud, explaining to my newly found family, where, in the Huron Street living room, it looked like the tree stood—most likely in the far-left corner. I told them that I was certain we were seated in the old musty club chair that sat in that room for years.

Mammy’s arm was protectively wrapped around me, and she looked glowing. My tiny hand was lightly touching hers.

Behind us, I could see a stocking hung on the tree, most likely home-made by Mammy, and a card perched on a branch that may or may not have been Mother Mary. I wondered if my dress was also home-made.

“Were we both dressed in white?” I asked my aunt. She couldn’t remember.

When I came back to my grinning face, I noticed my eyes. They were gazing up at someone.  And I could tell—that someone was special. Very special. Happy special.

There was a happy twinkle in those eyes; I could see it. Can you?

The studying eyes were intently fixed—staring steadily, watchfully, and with complete adoration.  The person on the receiving end was making baby Teri immensely happy.

“Who am I looking at?” I asked my aunt.

She couldn’t remember.

We all know the Thanksgiving drill: The turkey feast, dysfunctional family drama, and getting through the mundane recitations around the table about why we’re thankful. A day full of imperfections, complications, and fat pants.

Two weeks before Turkey Day the young, insecure “Terry” comes out, as I pour over recipes.

What can I cook up to make everybody happy? I design elaborate tablescapes, grocery shop, pre-plan, plan and re-plan the big shebang.

On the day of, I’m a one woman band, and I’m okay with that. I spend most of my holiday in the kitchen, which is fine with me. My way of saying I love you.

Dicing, slicing, mincing chopping, grinding, smashing, peeling, shredding.

All the while dancing, singing and sometimes crying to the songs on my iPod.

Sautéing, basting, and baking.  Always with precision, duty, perfection. And always result oriented—the need to please.

The need to love. The need to be loved.

As I prepare the turkey I fondly remember the time when I was about nine that my French grandmother Mammy whipped our turkey out of the sink and started singing and dancing with it in our shabby Huron Street kitchen. I bolted out of my chair and joined in, our hands entwined with the turkey legs, water dripping on both of us.

Alouette, gentille alouette. Alouette, je te plumerai. 

I didn’t know it then, I couldn’t know it then, that I was in the middle of a diamond moment—a moment in time that I would remember every Thanksgiving for the rest of my life.

This Thanksgiving, most of our family is unavailable, so my daughter Ariel suggested we do Sushgiving on Friday— a little sushi and a lot of thanks.

I agreed, but I was also determined to prepare a Thanksgiving feast—even if it was just for my husband and me.

More than any other recent Thanksgiving, I desperately needed a day of gratitude, with some turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes thrown in for good measure.

It’s been 31 years since my grandmother died and I have lived more than half my life without her. Mammy’s long gone, but her love of Thanksgiving will never die.

So I was determined to shop and cook for days, and then get up at the crack of dawn on Thanksgiving and prepare a humongous feast—even if it was just for two of us.

Because I am Mammy’s granddaughter.

Last night, with the television blaring to keep me company, I prepared Mammy’s fruit and Jell-O mold and sadly recalled my lost family.

And then I thought about all the families that would sit down to Thanksgiving dinner this year having survived hurricanes, wildfires and mass shootings.

How many families would sit around a table, with their loved ones missing?

Empty chairs.

As I measured and stirred, I silently asked God how someone could find the inner strength and courage to give thanks after losing everything.

God answered me. Sort of.

At the exact moment I asked God how, a mother and sister of a woman killed in the Las Vegas shooting tearfully said this on television:  “Be together. Just stay close with your family. You have to find the light. You have to find the beauty. It’s out there. Darkness is so strong, but light is stronger.”

Last Thanksgiving one of my beautiful granddaughters dropped a ginormous blob of Mammy’s cherry Jell-O mold on my white linen dining chair.

I gazed down and cringed at the probable permanent stain it would leave.

My granddaughter attempted to scoop up the jiggly mess with her tiny fingers while unknowingly sealed it into the delicate linen fabric even more.

That chair was toast.

She looked up at me and with a beaming smile squished the goop into my hand.

I gazed into her bright eyes and caught a glimpse of her future: preparing her own Thanksgiving dinner—cooking, singing, dancing.

I saw in her angelic face, all the Thanksgivings coming her way.

Chairs full of family.

With my hand full of red goo, missing my grandmother on the inside, but smiling on the outside, I gave my granddaughter a crushing bear hug and a whole-hearted thanks.