My mother’s first job in Atlanta initiated from a non-conventional interview between her, the hiring manager and my father. “Yes, she’s very quick learner, very smart, 10-key pad, no problem. “Whatever she needs to learn, she will do, I give you my word.”
Mr. Folger West, vice-president of a corporate insurance company, was a tall, handsome, classic, southern cowboy. He was a devout Shriner and Freemason who adorned his home with various (and mixed-messaged) plaques from “South’s gonna rise again” to “If you’re here, you’re family”. He had a distinct Bob Hope charm about him, caring with a dash of dry wit and a flirtatious spirit.
As my mother’s interpreter continues his overzealous sales pitch, Mr. West shifts his swivel chair towards the petite and quiet potential hire. “Honey, he ever lets you speak?” My mother looks up with a quick giggle. “I’m just kiddin’, George, I like you and I want to hire Ms. Grace, but I got one question and the answer to this will seal the deal”. “Of course, anything, I can send you. “Grace, you know how to make fried rice?” My father repeats, rice and then turns to my mom, “tsao fan”, she giggles with both hands cupped over her lips staring up at her funny new boss and nods. “You’re hired!”
The first time my mother ever actually made fried rice for Mr. West was when he and his wife Norma Jean invited our family to their home for Thanksgiving dinner. I never really understood why they exclusively invited us to this salient ritual; perhaps they needed a subject for a charitable cause, or perhaps they really, really just liked fried rice. Whatever their reasons were, other than Native Americans, Pilgrims and the Mayflower, we had no clue about this meal, did I mention that Chinese people don’t cook turkey?
As we entered their beautiful, colonial mini-mansion atop a large mound in a rustic, farm-like neighborhood, the smells of warmed spices filled the main foyer. We passed the gentle glow of candles lit up in every room as we traveled inside towards the dining room. My sisters and I had never met Norma Jean or Mr. West, but we instantly felt safe and relaxed.
Norma Jean was a kind woman with soft copper curls, a real Mrs. Claus presence. She was not overly talkative but never allowed any uncomfortable silences to linger. She led us towards the most beautiful dining table we had ever seen, all fancied up with gold linens, flowers, and more candles. Each place setting hosted the shiniest of silverware, an antique china plate, and a single wine glass. My sisters and I had never seen, let alone touch a wine glass. But on that night, Norma Jean made us our first Shirley Temple, which had us smiling ear to ear. She also transformed an apple into a mini turkey by poking toothpicks and adding paper feathers. I can still see that turkey, placed right in front of us kids so that we had something fun to look at throughout the meal, this was one of many personal touches that made us feel so embraced.
My first taste of a Thanksgiving turkey, 1981.
Out of nowhere, Mr. West presented the main attraction, a brown lacquered bird so big, it had to be rolled in. All eyes were on this bird, my father wiped away the mouthwatering trickle dripping on the side of his mouth while my sisters and I tapped each other’s arms to make sure we weren’t dreaming.
Each side dish found its way towards the center of the table wrapped in crocheted trivet nests. Norma Jean presented each with great pride, “now this is cornbread, we make it with pork cracklins. And this here, this is called green bean casserole, see them crunchy things, that’s the best part.” She continued to explain the rest of the dishes, the country dressing, homemade southern biscuits, jello mold, gravy, and mashed potato.
We worked our way through the sides, loading our plates and smiling at each other with sheer joy. My sisters and I forgot about my mother’s fried rice, though my mom discreetly tried to find it. After seconds of searching, biting her lips, unsure if it was truly welcomed, it too was wrapped in an individual crocheted trivet nest, sitting comfortably in the center along with the rest of our first Thanksgiving dishes.
We celebrated Thanksgiving every year with Mr. West and Norma Jean. We looked forward to every part of the visit, from the long drive out to the “country” to playing their grand piano. My deepest memory is how happy my sisters and I felt, watching our parents make these friendships and stepping outside their comfort zones. Even as kids, we noticed the hesitation from our parents transformed into a genuine, reciprocated connection from both sides.
Mr. West and his wife have since passed. Thanksgiving remains our family’s favorite holiday, Norma Jean’s instructions makes its way through every dish we make, and we always have fried rice, sitting comfortably in the center of the table.