CAROLINE'S CORNER: MEDITATING MORALITY WHILE MAKING DRESSING

The fact that I am the last one in my long family line of dressing-makers hit me like a ton of bricks. As I realized that the responsibility lay square on my shoulders, I stood in the kitchen in the midst of turkey parts, crumbled corn bread and onion and cried. This was the first time in my life that I fully comprehended my mortality. I will likely be the next female to go. The women behind me have gone, and now it is my turn.

My mini-breakdown was not understood by immediate family members. Boulware came into the midst of the mayhem and asked why I was crying."I'm not crying," I whispered. "I'm chopping onions.""You don't usually sob out loud when you chop onions and cry.""Okay, I am crying. I am the last one to make the dressing, and that makes me sad!""Then don't make dressing," he said. "We'll go get a hamburger.""You don't understand! Going to get a hamburger is not in the spirit of Thanksgiving. Making dressing is in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and I am the last one left in my family to make it."At this time Cara came into the kitchen. "What is wrong with Mom?" she asked. "Why is she crying as she makes the dressing?""She is crying because she has to make dressing," Boulware explained."Then let's go get a hamburger," Cara said with great excitement.

By this time, I was really woebegone. How could my family not understand my dilemma? I shooed them out of the kitchen and finished cooking the meal.

During dinner time, I was treated like a china plate that might crumble into a thousand pieces. Husband and daughters patted me on the shoulder and glanced quizzically at each other during the meal. They were sure that such a difficult chore as cooking a meal had pushed Mama over the edge.

This scenario happened 10 years ago, and I always think of my mortality when I make dressing.

I asked Minnie May Marble if she has the same feelings. Since she grew up in south Louisiana and feels compelled to make oyster dressing, rice dressing and cornbread dressing, she must get a triple dose of instincts of mortality."Sure, I have a huge pity party every time the holidays roll around and the responsibility of the dressing is mine," Minnie May said. "Only a female who is the last of her line can understand. Don't tell Boulware and the girls. They will only think you have PMS."Other friends who have no aunts, grandmothers or mother alive have confirmed the dressing syndrome. It is a complex affliction, and only those so traumatized can understand.

This year I am feeling less moribund because I was not required to make dressing during the holidays. We were invited with friends for Thanksgiving dinner. We traveled all the way to south Georgia to eat Christmas dressing that Boulware's mother made.

When I called my mother-in-law to inform her that we were coming for Christmas Eve, I said, "Boulware says he doesn't want you to spend your time in the kitchen cooking for us. But I have a small request. Could you make dressing?""Of course I'll make dressing!" Julia replied. "What is Christmas without dressing?"That reply made me feel so loved and so understood.

I will never live to see my daughters understand tears in the dressing. Maybe I can look down from my cloud and say, "Uh huh, I told you so."

Caroline Simpson's feature articles and columns appear in other Rust Communications publications.