Thanksgiving with Trisha Yearwood

Her first Thanksgiving away from home, the country star discovered that gratitude and tradition can travel far.

By Trisha Yearwood, Owasso, Oklahoma

As appeared in

I'd recently moved to Oklahoma when Garth Brooks popped the question. No, not that one. It would be a while before he got down on one knee and proposed to me in front of 7,000 people. This was a more private request, one that gave me goosebumps nonetheless.

“Honey,” he said one October night, “I’ve been thinking maybe we could do Thanksgiving with my family. What if I invited them over?”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said.

“One more thing,” he said. “Could you do the cooking? You know how to make everything, right?”

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“Of course,” I said, trying to project confidence. “I’d love to.” What else could I say? I was proud of my talent in the kitchen—I love it when somebody who only knows me for my singing discovers I can cook too. How could I admit that at the age of 38 I’d never made Thanksgiving dinner on my own? The holiday was so special for our family that even if I was touring, I made sure to come home. But I just assisted with the feast. Mama and my older sister, Beth, were in charge of the turkey, the sides and the pies. They’d be cooking back home in Monticello, Georgia, and here I was in Oklahoma.

“How many people are we talking about?” I asked casually.

“About fifteen,” Garth replied. “Nothing fancy.”

Fifteen people for a turkey dinner with all the trimmings? He made it sound as easy as whipping up a bunch of pimiento-cheese sandwiches.

That night I got on the phone to Mama. How should I cook the turkey, how would I know it was done, what all went into Grandma Lizzie’s cornbread dressing anyway?

“You’re making this way too complicated,” Mama said. “Keep it simple.” Simple? This was a big deal! It was my chance to prove to Garth’s family that I was more than some chick singer. That I could make a warm, happy home for him and his three daughters. I didn’t want to blow it.

I took out a notebook. “Hold on, Mama, let me get this down. How many hard-boiled eggs go into Grandma Lizzie’s dressing? What’s the right ratio of cornbread to white bread?” Then it occurred to me. “Mama, can you just send me the recipe?”

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“I would, but it’s not written down,” she said. “It’s all in my head.”

I should’ve known. I come from a long line of fabulous cooks, but the knowledge was passed down from generation to generation in the kitchen, not on paper. There are casseroles Mama taught Beth and me to make that she learned from watching Grandma make them for Granddaddy when he came in from working the fields. And Daddy too. He knew his way around the kitchen—and the grill. If there was a fundraiser in town, people would ask, “Is Jack making his Brunswick stew?” or “Is Jack barbecuing the chickens?”

Every recipe in our family has a story. We still laugh about the time Beth put too much ranch dressing in her Super Bowl Sunday cheese ball. My dad renamed it “cheese wad,” and that’s what we call it to this day. Or the year my career took off and I was looking for Christmas gifts for folks in the music business. Mama made a special batch of her cheese straws. We got a kick out of treating the movers and shakers of Nashville to something that had been made in little Monticello, population 2,000.

Food was how we showed our love. Once I came down with a bad case of the flu in Oklahoma. I swear I wouldn’t have recovered if it hadn’t been for an emergency shipment of Mama’s chicken noodle soup, packed in dry ice (where did she find dry ice in Monticello?).

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How was I going to do Thanksgiving on my own? Just the thought of it made me ache for home. “Remember, with the turkey,” Mama was telling me, “exactly one hour at five hundred degrees. Then turn off the oven and don’t open the door till the oven cools. It might be another five or six hours.”

“I got it,” I said, closing my notebook. No one’s ever going to believe this, I thought, least of all Garth.

Sure enough, he looked at me incredulously. “You do what with the turkey?”