A Night of Tradition and Citrus Bliss: Creating Fruit Salad Memories

Growing up in a family of culinary enthusiasts, my roots were firmly planted in the love of food. Not the haute cuisine of delicate soufflés or Beef Wellington, but the appreciation for simple, well-cooked dishes. In my grandmother's Appalachian Mountain home, every occasion revolved around food. Granny Stella, a culinary matriarch, always had a pot of hearty beef stew, chicken and dumplings, or vegetable soup simmering on the stove, ready for any unexpected guest.

The mere sight of a biscuit, a gingerbread stack cake, or fried chicken transports me to cherished moments with my grandmother and her delectable creations. Yet, it's the scent of a freshly peeled orange that triggers the most vivid memories, evoking the flavors of fruit salad and the warmth of love.

Journeying from our South Carolina home to my grandparents' place in Kentucky was an adventure in itself. However, the real excitement unfolded when the women in my family gathered to prepare Thanksgiving dinner.

Amidst the rhythmic sounds of chopping onions and celery for cornbread dressing, the slicing of sweet potatoes destined for a brown sugar and butter embrace, and the baking of pumpkin and pecan pies, a special vessel took center stage on the kitchen table—an empty gallon pickled bologna jar eagerly awaiting its transformation into fruit salad.

The process began with the ceremonial unveiling of the colossal turkey by one of the men, usually my father. After cleaning, the turkey found its place in the roasting pan, snugly tucked into the refrigerator. With pies ready for the next day, attention turned to the kitchen table.

My cousin and I eagerly awaited the clearing of the table, the placement of butcher paper, and the subsequent heap of fruits. The fruit salad's foundation included two large cans of fruit cocktail and home-canned peaches and pears. As fresh fruits—bananas, grapes, apples, and the star of the show, Florida oranges—were skillfully sliced, the kitchen became infused with the citrusy aroma.

In my younger years, I proudly peeled the oranges, reveling in the pebbly texture and the slight oiliness left on my fingers. The sweet and acidic fragrance of the oranges dominated the kitchen, overtaking the other fruits.

At seven or eight, my responsibility extended to slicing bananas while the adults and my older cousin tackled apples, grapes, and chopped walnuts. All the fruits harmoniously joined forces in a large stone crock, bound together by Granny's touch. A splash of orange juice, shredded sweetened coconut, and maraschino cherries completed the masterpiece.

Satisfied that the fruit salad reached its pinnacle, we filled the empty pickled bologna jar (sans pickle scent, I assure you) to the brim. The jar, capped and secured in the refrigerator, remained untouched until the next morning, when we might sneak a taste at breakfast.

While the fruit salad and the scent of oranges still conjure beautiful memories, the true essence of the night before Thanksgiving lay in the joy and love shared by my family. Grandfather, father, and uncle covertly raided the kitchen, indulging in stolen apple slices and orange segments. Even my Chihuahua, Henry, eagerly awaited his share, and Granny always set aside a bit of beef stew for him. By the end of the weekend, Henry, like the rest of us, left a little heavier.

Thanksgiving has evolved over the years, marked by the passing of loved ones and the emergence of new families and traditions. Yet, I hold dear those moments spent crafting fruit salad with my mother, grandmother, aunt, and cousin—moments filled with laughter and tales of holidays gone by.

On this night before Thanksgiving, whatever your celebration may be, create a memory, even if it's one only you will carry. Life is too short not to savor the sweetness of joy and the fragrance of oranges.

As the evening unfolded, the kitchen transformed into a lively hub of activity. The chopping of onions and celery for cornbread dressing, the slicing of sweet potatoes for their date with brown sugar and butter the next day, and the baking of pumpkin and pecan pies set the stage. Amidst these preparations, a special vessel took center stage on the kitchen table—an empty gallon pickled bologna jar eagerly awaiting its transformation into the cherished fruit salad.

The process commenced with the ceremonial unwrapping of the colossal turkey, a task usually undertaken by my father. After its meticulous cleaning, the turkey found its place in the roasting pan, snugly tucked away in the refrigerator. With pies safely baked and awaiting their moment the following day, attention shifted to the kitchen table.

My cousin and I, brimming with anticipation, watched as the table was cleared, butcher paper laid out, and an array of fruits arranged on top. The foundation of the fruit salad was laid with two large cans of fruit cocktail and home-canned peaches and pears. Fresh fruits—bananas, grapes, apples, and the pièce de résistance, Florida oranges—were expertly sliced, infusing the kitchen with a tantalizing citrusy aroma.

In my younger years, I reveled in the responsibility of peeling the oranges, enjoying the pebbly texture and the slightly oily residue on my fingers. The sweet and acidic fragrance of the oranges dominated the kitchen, overshadowing the scents of other fruits.

As I grew older, my duties expanded to slicing bananas with a dinner knife, while the adults and my older cousin tackled apples, grapes, and chopped walnuts. All the fruits, a symphony of colors and textures, came together in a large stone crock, skillfully stirred and mixed by Granny herself. A generous splash of orange juice, shredded sweetened coconut, and vibrant maraschino cherries, a personal favorite of mine, completed the ensemble.

With the fruit salad now deemed perfection by Granny's discerning standards, the empty pickled bologna jar (I assure you, free from any lingering pickle aroma) was filled to the brim. Sealed with a cap and placed securely in the refrigerator, it remained untouched until the next morning, when the anticipation would culminate in a delightful taste at breakfast.

While the fruit salad and the enchanting scent of oranges still conjure up beautiful memories, the true magic of the night before Thanksgiving lay in the shared joy and love within my family. Grandfather, father, and uncle engaged in covert raids on the kitchen, delighting in stolen apple slices and orange segments. Even my Chihuahua, Henry, eagerly awaited his share, and Granny always set aside a portion of beef stew for him. By the end of the weekend, Henry, much like the rest of us, left with a contented heaviness.

As Thanksgiving traditions transformed over the years, marked by the passing of loved ones and the establishment of new families.