Kneading

A tribute to my Grandmother and Thanksgiving, a long-lost personal essay I wrote in college, thirty years ago.

“The fat little white circles of dough lined the pan in rows. Once more, Sethe touched a wet finger to the stove. She opened the oven door and slid the biscuits in.”

A writing prompt from Beloved, by Toni Morrison

My morning started much like Sethe’s.

I reached into the cabinet for a small box of Jiffy biscuit mix, shook the contents into a mixing bowl, and added the required half cup of water to the prepared flour mixture. I took a fork and gently mixed it, working the dough into shape. I sprinkled flour onto my large wooden cutting board, then gently scooped the dough ball out of the bowl and into my floured hand. I tossed the ball back and forth between my hands, plying the dough with my fingers.

I liked the sensation of this ball of dough; it felt soft and warm like a little fat newborn baby’s bottom. I laid the dough on the board and began to gently knead and roll, knead and roll.

This was a very traditional task for me in my very untraditional 1992 kitchen. Standing here, on a blustery Saturday morning, clad in my extra-large Ren & Stimpy t-shirt, my husband’s sweatpants, and my overly large, gray, furry mouse house shoes given to me on Christmas last year by my daughters. I’m sure the little pigs stenciled along the wallpapered border of my kitchen countertop felt lost and afraid at the sight of me, thinking they had wandered into the wrong kitchen this morning. I don’t even own a rolling pin or a biscuit cutter, but I’ll make do.

I took a long, slim water glass from the cabinet and used it to roll my dough. I remember this dough rolling exercise from a freshman home economics class, circa 1979. I enjoyed it then, and as I do now. My large, flattened round of dough lies before me, wondering what instrument of torture I’ll use on it next. As mentioned earlier, I don’t own a biscuit cutter, so I remove a long, sleek, crystal champagne flute from the wine rack over my sink. I place the fluted glass on the dough — gently pressing and turning into the dough, leaving a petite, dainty biscuit behind.

I finished stamping out my biscuits and then lined them neatly into a pan. These dainty biscuits are an unlikely side dish to my breakfast menu this morning. I am making my family’s favorites: egg-and-potato burritos with homemade biscuits and jelly for dessert.

“Traditional” is a word I don’t typically associate with myself or my family. But my grandmother claims I am the most traditional of all her eighteen grandchildren, as I try to instill the values and traditions she passed down to me and my family.

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She laughed heartily when I called her, bursting with pride, on the evening before Thanksgiving, to tell her I had finally acquired my very own white porcelain turkey boat to grace my Thanksgiving table.

I remember every Thanksgiving dinner at my grandma’s house. Waking up to the aromas drifting over my bed from her kitchen, a twenty-pound turkey roasting in the oven, and sweet pies on the counter, while the smells of sage, celery, and onions from her homemade cornbread dressing made my stomach growl.

It smelled like love.

As we found our seats at the long pine dinner table later that afternoon, the fat, orange, and brown speckled turkey tureen sat in its place of honor in the middle of the table—like an old friend that kept coming back to visit, year after year.

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As a child, I loved watching my grandmother work her magic in the kitchen, carefully creating her masterpieces. I would pull up a barstool as close as I could, hoping she would need me to help roll out dough, or even better, lick the cake batter from the mixing bowl with my fingers.

Grandma had a natural talent for cleaning while she cooked. When she set her dinner on the table, there was hardly a dirty dish in the sink. As I looked at my kitchen this morning—scattered with flour sprinkles, broken eggshells, and a pile of dirty dishes—I realized I have never mastered this skill of cleaning while you cook.

Or maybe my messiness is just an old ghost from my past, finally free to take its stand and scream, “I’ll clean when I get damned well good and ready!”

Screaming for a young girl with no voice, yelling back at her father during one of his late-night drunken binges about baseboards and toilets that were never clean enough, like the dirty house was the cause of the chaos and abuse he imposed on his family.

My little family gathers around our large, oval, claw-footed wooden table for breakfast. We sit in our usual seats: me at the head (or maybe it’s the foot), my husband to my right, his daughter next to him, and my daughter to my right. Our blended family gives me peace, and I treasure these small moments, knowing they are fleeting.

I once asked my husband why he didn’t sit at the head of the table; he just said he preferred it on the side. So, here we sit, eating an untraditional breakfast on this traditional table, and I smile, recalling how nice it was kneading dough this morning—just like “kneading” my grandmother—passing that ball of dough back and forth from her floured hand to mine.

I wish each of you a Happy Thanksgiving, and I hope you are creating your own traditions or passing on those you remember from days passed, in honor of loved ones who are no longer with you.

© Dana VonAllmen 2025 | All rights reserved