Thanksgiving sunrise, a hectic morning at my grandparents house. It's a tradition. The fireplace is red hot from the black coal burning through pounds of cut up wood. My grandparents house was open concept, meaning I had eyes on my surroundings, being a child I wanted to observe the madness occuring. Grandma starts preparing the Thanksgiving meal. Turkey was stuffed and in the oven, beets, and of course the famous garlic parmesan mashed potatoes and gravy were being mashed and ready to go. I looked forward to having these potatoes every year, especially because I only got them once a year.

As the day progresses, the aroma of cooking turkey and burning wood fills the house. The family curls up around the televisions while my mother, aunt and grandma are cooking. I watched them cook, hoping to be in the kitchen helping them one day. While the day continues, I can smell the warm homemade garlic butter melt into the potatoes.  As dinner time comes forth, we gather.

“Guys! Dinner is ready come pray with me,” my grandma stated.

As we stand, we link hands and thank God for the beautiful life we live and the delicious food he blessed us with.

Sooner than later, I am on my second plate of mashed potatoes and gravy, feeling absolute fuller than the stuffed turkey.

Even though grandma is no longer with us, her recipes will always be here. The family tradition will never be broken.