Happy Thanksgiving

Steve and I do not agree about what makes the perfect stuffing.

He is partial to a bland, dry, crumbly mixture of pureed bread mixed with savoury and onions. This is heated (“cooked” isn’t really the right word) in the oven or on the stove and served with gravy. It fills the space on your plate between the overboiled potatoes and the overboiled cabbage. It can also be sprinkled on French fries before you slather them with gravy. Actually, Steve doesn’t call it “stuffing” at all: in Newfoundland, they say “dressing”.

My grandfather makes the best stuffing. I’ve tried to explain it to Steve’s mom, but the repulsed look on her face always assures me that I’m not making any sense. My grandfather’s stuffing is made with chunks of bread, onions, eggs, celery and goodness knows what else. All I know is that it’s delicious. Delicious and three-dimensional. Unlike Steve's version, it would not blow away if the wind picked up.

There is no point in making any extra effort with the stuffing at my house. Using sausage or nuts or apples or corn bread would not score me any points. I once tried to follow my grandfather’s recipe and ended up with a lot of leftovers because Steve would not even taste it. What will he eat, you ask? The stuffing-in-a-box made with shriveled Melba toasts and stale spices mixed with yellow dye.