2022 was the last Thanksgiving I spent with my dad. I knew it would be. He had been fighting cancer for about five years and that summer, he decided he was done fighting it.

"No more chemo!" is often the chant of those who are victorious, but it's also the resigned sigh of those who have simply had enough.

But this is not a post about cancer, or death, or dying … oddly enough, it's a post about food!

My Dad shucking oysters for Thanksgiving dressing.

I have a deep love of food and I inherited that, in part, from my father. It's not just about eating food - how it tastes and smells and makes us feel - it's also about making that food, and all the memories and emotions that are tied up with it.

Dad had, by all accounts, an idyllic childhood; growing up in Elkin, North Carolina in the 40's and 50's. His family was not wealthy by any means, but they also did not go without. His mother always planted a large garden, she kept chickens (which she would kill and clean for cooking), the family would forage together certain times of year, and a farmer friend would bring by produce and meat throughout the seasons.

Dad would tell stories of eagerly being his mother's "helper" in the kitchen because it meant that he got lots of samples and could lick the batter from the spoon … a tradition I gladly carry on! But I think it went a bit deeper than that. Dad was clearly his mama's boy! He once saved up enough money to buy her her very first electric mixer - no small feat at that time!

So, as the holidays approached, I began to prepare myself, both mentally and emotionally for this last Thanksgiving and Christmas with my Dad. And, of course, my mind went to food. What were the foods that he talked about having during those times that were not necessarily included in our usual family fare?

The two that came to mind were oyster dressing and persimmon pie.

Not surprisingly, these dishes feature two crops that are in season during the fall and were likely a staple on many holiday plates when people were more closely connected to the seasons' rhythms and profferings.

I wish I could say that I made them both for him that year. But I never did get around to making that persimmon pie even though I did make the effort to actually procure the persimmons themselves.

But we did make the oyster dressing! He sat in the kitchen with me and we shucked the oysters together, talking of days gone by.

The story, happily, doesn't end there, because life isn't just about endings but new beginnings. Just recently, I had the opportunity to share one of my Dad's favorite food traditions with two more generations!

Dad’s scowly face. I believe this was the last time we snickered together while baking the doodles.

Snickerdoodles were one of my Dad's favorite cookies and he had fond memories of his mother baking them around the holidays and storing them in empty potato chip tins (apparently, chips used to come in tins).

When we were kids, Dad would bake snickerdoodles for road trips and school events. He would carefully measure every ingredient, make each cookie the exact same size, and once cooled, would neatly stack them, count them and place them in tins (he was maybe slightly just a little OCD about it).

I can remember sneaking into the kitchen and nicking a carefully formed ball of dough, neatly coated in cinnamon and sugar, sitting on a cookie sheet waiting for its identical dough balls to join it before heading into the oven. When he would notice… which of course he did.. I'd get a scowl and probably be told to get out of the kitchen and leave his cookies alone!

Proof that my Dad wasn’t the grumpy curmudgeon I may have inadvertently made him out to be. Scowly, grumpy, yelling … it was kind of our love language in the kitchen.

Although he took his baking very seriously, he always made sure to add plenty of the secret Tatum family ingredient… lots of snickering (this is a trademark combination of smartassery and laughing).

If there was one cookie to sum up the Tatum family experience, it would be the snickerdoodle.

As an adult, Dad and I spent many an hour baking snickerdoodles together over the years. Well, I say together, but Dad's very particularness when it came to baking and my very…. Um… not so particularness …. meant that usually either I baked snickerdoodles while he hung out with me or he baked them while I hung out with him.

I'd get fussed at for using the wrong bowl, not measuring the cinnamon and sugar, actually using a mixer instead of just a wooden spoon…

But I loved those moments and in the end, we always laughed and enjoyed some really good cookies.

Recently, I got to share the tradition with my great niece!

My great niece and 5th generation snickerdoodler, Reece, learning from the best!

Wearing one of my Dad's old flannel shirts, I made snickerdoodles my way and shared the experience of mostly measuring ingredients and dumping them into the mixing bowl, forming some very irregular balls of dough, rolling them into a mix of cinnamon of sugar whose ratios were decided by taste and not teaspoons, and then popping the occasional deliciously coated raw dough ball into our mouths before continuing the process.

Most importantly, we both contributed heaps of the main ingredient… plenty of snickering!

It's an experience I hope to repeat again and again and again when little sister (i.e. the cutest photobomber ever) is big enough to participate.