My youngest daughter joined the ranks of my “grandchild delivery persons” in 2018, and she and her daughter lived with me for three years. I have recorded my adventures with Myah and her grandfather, Clop. For those new to the Woods saga, “Clop” is Myah’s version of my grampaw name, which is “Cool Papa.” Myah’s mother shortened it to “Cool Pop,” and when she tried to teach her daughter to say it, Myah dropped two vowels and a consonant, leaving “Clop.” Though she now takes pride in her ability to say, “Cool Papa,” I take pride in her designation of me as “Clop.”
Anyway: Now comes the time that we call “Thanksgiving,” when feasts are prepared that include “turkey, bread stuffing, potatoes, cranberries and pumpkin pie,” in homage to the legendary gathering shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) and the Wampanoag people, the original inhabitants of what came to be called “America.” The tradition dates to 1621 and continues for many people today. As for me, the Thanksgiving tradition is a much smaller: My turkey is a Cornish hen.
After I had fractured my first marriage, I had to scale down the traditional family celebrations. Thanksgiving, which usually featured a massive turkey surrounded by the afore-mentioned feast items, became a solitary affair. A single man can eat from a twelve-pound turkey for at least two months, provided it is properly preserved. I found another bird to bake and eat, in the form of a Cornish hen. And for that, I say, “Dee doo.”
As African Americans say about people who can deliver delicious dishes, my mother could “burn.” When people told tales of Thanksgiving feasts, they would say, “She can burn!” And for the most part, the people who “burned” the feasts were women. And my mother, who worked for a time for a catering company, could flat-out burn. I remember standing beside her, watching the flames of the gas stove’s burners leaping above the edges of the pots and pans. My mother appeared to cook by moving the pans on and off roaring flames, and not by raising and lowering the fire. When I started cooking, I emulated her behavior and after burning a few pots, started to read some cookbooks. I did most of the cooking in my first marriage and my first daughter told me that she remembered that. And for that I say, “Dee doo.”
My first two grandchildren know a little about my love of cooking, but their father is also passionate about the art. I wrote of Imani hearing sounds in the kitchen and being disappointed to find me banging spoons against the side of pans. “I thought you were my daddy,” she told me, for she loved to cook with her father. And for that moment, I say, “Dee doo.”
In the three years that I lived with my youngest granddaughter, I shared with her my cooking, though I doubt that she will remember much beyond a “Clop egg,” which is an egg over medium, with a slightly runny yolk. She liked it, she likes it, and she still asks for it when she spends time with me. And for that, I say, “Dee doo.”
At the traditional time of Thanksgiving, many people are encouraged to give thanks for the blessings they have received throughout the year. My youngest daughter coined the phrase “Dee doo” as her interpretation of Myah’s “thank you.” Though she is now quite fluent in the language, her mother and grandfather still use “dee doo” as a way of saying thanks. For that, I say:
Dee doo.
cjon3acd@att.net