It was a lovely Thanksgiving Day in the Low Country. Blue skies, fresh breezes, light traffic. We gathered at our children’s house and always look forward to seeing our daughter-in-law’s parents. We’ve been friends from the get-go. We’re lucky that way.
The porch on the May River was wonderfully sittable. Cocktails were served, conversation flowed. In due time and with sufficient wine in our tummies, we made our way to a beautiful and bountiful Thanksgiving table.
Most of the family are excellent and creative cooks. I am the exception to the rule and that’s okay with everyone. The good news is that everybody always makes a little extra to compensate for my inevitable oopsies.
As I wrote last week, I had happily located the recipe for Mrs. Willard’s Zucchini Casserole and was planning to share it with the others. I also noted that I was a touch nervous about the preparation part.
And, in fact, there was good reason to feel that way. I followed her directions to the nth degree. Salting, slicing, simmering, stirring. Alas, from the very first taste, I knew something important was missing. Time was running short so we took the dish as it was and hoped for the best.
As we dined and I heard no “yummys” but sensed some some “hummies,” I knew exactly what was missing and there was absolutely nothing any one could have done about it.
What was missing was Mrs. Willard.