Thanksgiving shifts on you as life goes on. But the earliest memories stay put.
Our family used to drive to Brooksville, a little town in east Mississippi where my grandfather grew up. Several of my great-uncles still lived there, and cousins wandered in from all directions. That drive from the Pine Belt toward Noxubee County always signaled the holiday. Somewhere around Shuqualak the tall pines gave way to hardwoods, and through the rear windshield of my mother’s yellow Plymouth, the world changed colors. Pinecones and straw in my neighborhood were replaced by piles of crinkly, multicolored leaves in Brooksville. Playing in those leaves at my great-uncle Harrison’s house made the whole trip worth it.
The food never disappointed. It was the classic lineup every year—turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes, and homemade rolls. The rolls may have come from the Mennonite bakery down the road. Nothing fancy. Nothing “elevated.” Just straightforward country cooking from people who knew feeding your family well is one of the clearest ways to show love.
As the years rolled on, Thanksgiving moved from Brooksville to my grandmother’s house on Fourth Avenue in Hattiesburg. My grandmother, Eunice Holleman St. John, was the undisputed hostess of that era. She had traveled the world, but you wouldn’t know it unless you asked. Her lunches were formal but never stiff. She listened more than she talked. She cooked with skill and served with ease. Any early form of gratitude I managed to show probably came from her. My mother taught manners. My grandmother taught the deeper side of it.
Even now, thirty-five years after her passing, she stays at the top of my daily gratitude list. Before my feet hit the floor most mornings, I run through a silent list of the people and things I’m grateful for—something I picked up in recovery forty-two years ago and still practice today.
My kids always make the list. Their health and happiness. My wife and best friend. Our team members. My friends around town and across the country. But I’ve never once recited that list without my paternal grandmother near the top. Her influence is still that strong.
I’ve spent a fortune on business seminars and coaching sessions, professional industry consultants, gaining advice from experts who operate at a high level. But none of it ever topped the examples my grandmother set and how she lived her life. She was selfless. She was compassionate. She was strong and gracious without fanfare. In movies, someone always calls his grandmother a saint. I relate to that. Mine literally carried the name St. John, but she lived it long before any of us thought about the symbolism.
My twenties were a blur, and I can barely recall many Thanksgivings from that stretch. By my late twenties, my first restaurant was open. I spent ninety hours a week in the kitchen behind the line. We closed on Thanksgiving Day, but I’d still drive up to the restaurant, fire up the fryer, drop a turkey, and use the ovens to bake the sides. It was easier than navigating one small oven at home. So, there I was cooking Thanksgiving lunch in an empty restaurant kitchen under fluorescent lights that reminded me I was the only person in town working on Thanksgiving, unless you count the crew earning triple pay at the Waffle House.
For the past three decades, I’ve been responsible for the family Thanksgiving meal. In the early days I cooked every dish. But for the past decade or so, since I’m not on the line as much, our prep crew at the restaurants does the heavy lifting. They appreciate the extra work, and I’m grateful for the help. I roast the turkey, make the gravy, heat the casseroles, and it all comes together.
I’ve also reached an age where gratitude isn’t something I keep to myself. I’ll call someone out of the blue just to say thank you. Maybe they set an example that shaped the way I parent. Maybe they helped me through a hard season. Maybe they’ve simply been steady. Every time I make one of those calls, that’s my grandmother talking.
Life looks different now, but the work still connects it all. These days I own a bakery that is becoming the bakery I always hoped Hattiesburg could have. Loblolly has been on a tear this past year. Chef Linda Roderick—who has worked beside me for more than twenty-five years—has spent the past several months filling every freezer and shelf with Thanksgiving casseroles. Cornbread dressing, sweet potatoes, mac and cheese, squash, asparagus, green bean casseroles, dinner rolls, and even the gravy. Everything but the turkey. We took orders right up through Sunday. It’s been a ride.
About that gravy. You may think gravy is just gravy. Wrong. When we were developing Christmas recipes for the new cookbook, Linda, my son Harrison—fresh out of the Culinary Institute of America—and I worked through the gravy until it landed exactly where it needed to be. Out of all the recipes in the book, that gravy may be the one I’m proudest of. It’s listed alongside this column.
Last week I flew home after two months overseas. The very next night we held the book launch at Crescent City Grill. The place was packed, and the signing ran long. Chef Nevil Barr cooked dishes from the book, including the Barq’s root beer ham and the roasted turkey with gravy. People kept stopping by the table talking about that gravy. Out of everything there, it stole the show.
When it was over, I finally walked over and tasted it. Nevil said, “We just followed your recipe.” I didn’t remember it being that special, but when you taste a hundreds of dishes in recipe testing session, things can blur. This one stood out.
Thanksgiving looks different these days, but the core of it is still the same. Those leaves in Brooksville, the hardwoods past Shuqualak, my grandmother’s table on Fourth Avenue, the years in the kitchen when I was young and bulletproof—all of that lives in me. It comes back every November, not as a faded memory but as a reminder of how much there is to be grateful for right in front of me.
Those early years laid the foundation, but they aren’t better than what sits in front of me now. A wife who’s also my best friend. Children who’ve grown into adults any father would be proud to claim. Friends who’ve been there longer than I deserve. A team that believes in what we’re doing. A community that has supported me— through victories and failures— and longer than seems reasonable. The older I get, the more I appreciate it.
People try to find happiness in a lot of places. Gratitude is what finally held me in place. My grandmother lived that way without saying a word about it. She worked in her kitchen grateful for her family, her faith, and her day. I didn’t understand it then. Recovery made it clear, and it’s been the one thing I can count on.
So, as Thanksgiving gets close and I think about the meal and the people who’ll be at the table, it’s clear that every stop along the way and every person who helped me brought me to this point. Gratitude isn’t a task for the morning. It’s the whole thing. And if I’m blessed with fifty more Thanksgivings, they don’t have to look like the ones in Brooksville. The best parts are right in front of me today.
Onward.
