Of Sage & Spice

Thanksgiving belongs to Momma. It is her best season, I believe; she thrives amongst the gold and amber and crimson as though she was spun from autumn itself—her laughter crisp as the leaves, her hands warm as spice. The kitchen becomes her stage, and she moves with practiced certainty, measuring by memory, tasting by instinct. Every year, the house glows with pride of the decorations she has set, and the heady aroma of butter, garlic, and sage wafts through the halls, accompanied by the steady rhythm of her best knife chopping celery. The meal is always a spectacular feast, but the real star is not the turkey; At my mother's table, the cornbread dressing is the hero rather than the sidekick. The recipe is hers alone, passed from my grandmother's hands to my mother's hands, and, finally, under Momma's watchful eyes, to mine. This past Thanksgiving, in a kitchen two thousand miles away from hers, I stood before a countertop of cooling cornbread and ground sage, trying to summon her magic from memory.

Much to Momma's chagrin, I had moved to California that summer, turning all of our holiday traditions on their heads. Far from my Georgia roots, far from the kitchen where I had first learned to cook, I longed for a taste of home. This was my first Thanksgiving without my parents (they're very much alive and well, but very much far away from my new home), without the comfortable familiarity of my mother’s cooking. And while most people might have panicked over roasting the turkey, I knew the real test was the dressing. Could I recreate Momma's cornbread dressing on my own? I was confident in my preparation of the ingredients: I knew how to crack the eggs without getting bits of shell in the bowl, how to deftly chop and sauté the onion, celery, and garlic into the perfect mirepoix, how to bake the perfect pan of crispy, crumbly cornbread for the base, how to read and follow a recipe.

The problem I faced was, Momma's recipe didn’t exist—not on paper, at least. It lived in my mother’s hands, in the way she pinched the sage between her fingers, in the muscle memory that produced neatly diced mounds of vegetables, in decades of careful practice. No measuring cups, no written instructions. Just instinct, history, and what I can only describe as a little bit of magic.

So I did what any modern, slightly desperate child of tradition would do. I called her.

“Hey, Momma,” I said, trying to sound casual, as if my entire Thanksgiving feast didn’t hinge on this conversation (because for me, it did). “How do you make your dressing?”

She laughed. “Sara Elizabeth, you’ve watched me make dressing a hundred times.”

“I know,” I said, pacing the tile floors. “But humor me.”

She sighed, the way only a mother does when she knows she’s about to guide you through something she could do blindfolded. “Okay. First, you need some good cornbread. You took your skillet with you, right?”

I looked at the golden crust of the cast iron bounty cooling on the stovetop “Obviously.”

“Let it cool, then crumble it up good. Not too fine, though. You don’t want dust.”

I nodded, as if she could see me. “Got it.”

"Here's a little tip: take a loaf of white bread and let it get good and stale, then toast it in the oven a little bit and mix that in with the cornbread."

Since I didn't have time to wait for a loaf of bread to get stale, I secretly resolved to use a box of stuffing mix that had been in the cabinet for a month or so.

Momma's careful instructions continued: “Then sauté your onions and celery and a little bit of garlic in a good amount of butter. Don’t be stingy.”

This part I could handle. Butter, I trusted.

She continued, walking me through each step—how much broth and buttermilk (“enough to make it moist, but not soggy”), how much seasoning (“taste as you go, but I always put in a LOT of sage”), how to mix everything together ("it's best to mix it by hand, like I do my meatloaf, so you know everything is well-combined"), how long to bake it ("Grease a Pyrex real good so it comes out clean and stick it in the oven at 350 for about 30-45 minutes. You want a crispy, brown top"). By the time I hung up the phone, I had a jumble of instructions scribbled on a scrap piece of paper and a cautious optimism that I might just be able to manage this task.

Then came the actual cooking.

If I could bottle the anxiety of that afternoon, I could sell it as a high-grade stress test. My kitchen, and my nerves, not accustomed to such an ambitious undertaking, quickly descended into chaos. There were dishes stacked in the sink, flour dusting the countertops, and a very real moment where I thought I had used too much sage and ruined the whole pan.

But as the dressing baked, and the turkey rested under its foil blanket, and the gravy thickened in the skillet, I felt something shift: all those years that I had been an eager, albeit unnecessary, spectator in Momma's kitchen came flooding back in a reel of tender nostalgia. I watched my stepdaughter sniff the air with the same hungry appreciation I'd had as a kid, and my heart welled with something like pride.

We set the table, modestly decorated to fit the season, and blessed the food. As we passed plates around, my heart beat a little faster, impatient for the long-awaited verdict on the dressing. The kid dove head first into the mashed potatoes, my partner headed straight for the turkey, but my fork hovered for a brief moment of hesitancy over the square of dressing. It looked right, it smelled right, but I still had my doubts. I speared a good sized bite and tasted: it was as though Momma had sent a pan of her dressing all the way to California just for me. I blinked away hot tears of relief and laughingly cried, "It tastes just like my Momma's!"

The whole day I had worried—what if I got it wrong? What if it didn't taste right, what if I lost something precious in the distance between us? But there it was, familiar and warm as an embrace from home. I took another bite, feeling—if only for a moment—that I wasn’t so far away after all.

I realized something, as my own little family sat around our California kitchen table, laughing and creating our own holiday traditions: Thanksgiving didn’t just belong to my mother. It belongs to all of us who carry pieces of home with us, who re-create from memory and love the dishes that tie us to the people and traditions we miss and hold in our hearts.

And next year? I would still call Momma for the recipe.

Just to make sure.

Momma's Cornbread Dressing "Recipe":

Start with a good pan of cornbread (I make mine in a cast iron skillet that I preheat with about a tablespoon or two of bacon grease so that when you pour in the batter, the edges get good and crispy). Let it cool then crumble it into a big bowl, removing all the big lumps but not too fine. You want texture, not dust. Tear up some day-old bread while you’re at it—just enough to balance the cornbread and give the dressing a little body.

Next, chop up a good amount of celery and onion. Don’t skimp. Melt a generous few tablespoons of butter in a skillet and sauté them until they’re soft and translucent. Toss in some minced garlic and a pinch of ground sage if you’re feeling bold. This will make the house smell cozy. Set that aside.

Now comes the seasoning: You want a generous amount of sage (fresh or dried to your preference), a little thyme, a good pinch of salt, and black pepper to taste. Combine the dry ingredients well. Then add your celery and onion mixture.

Next, add one egg as a binding agent and some buttermilk to keep things rich. Then pour in your chicken broth. This isn’t the time for spoons—you have to feel it, so roll up your sleeves and mix with your hands, making sure to combine everything real good. You want it moist, not soggy. It should hold together well but still feel light.

Butter a baking dish—or spritz it down with cooking spray—and press the mixture into an even layer. Bake at 350°F until the top is golden brown and crisp at the edges, about 40-45 minutes.

When it’s done, let it sit for a moment. Then, serve with brown gravy, preferably made with turkey drippings, and take a bite—and if you did it right, it’ll taste just like home.