To my friends and readers:

Please note: Because this column is my own personal all-time favorite, I offer it to you as a leftover. I first wrote it about 15 years ago. So it reappears every thanksgiving, as dependably as gravy.

Leftover memories

If my mother knew that I could call an 800 number to get advice about how to cook a turkey she would be fascinated. And offended.

Trudy Miller was the best cook who ever lived. That ample, sturdy woman could open a refrigerator door - anybody's refrigerator - spot a bit of leftover roast, a few vegetables, a bit of cream and within an hour create an original, rave-worthy meal.

As a hobby she read recipes, but rarely followed them. To her, a recipe was like the Bible: Know what's in it and apply it the best you can. Her philosophy of cooking was simple: "What would go good with this?"

She looked forward to Thanksgiving as a day when she was a star in her very own home. The lavish meal was the climax of days of rolling, soaking, baking, mincing, cooking, mashing, basting, melting, stirring, whipping, serving, carving, cleaning, polishing, ironing, and she loved it all. While her ritual was in progress it was torture to own a nose and a healthy appetite in that house.

Mother wasn't discouraged when her lovely meal quickly disappeared through the lips of her children and friends.

In fact, she could hardly wait for the day after the feast so she could go to work on the leftovers. Refrigerator space wasn't a problem back in Kansas. With the screen door on the back porch firmly latched to keep the neighbors' dogs out, a cold night was all that was needed to preserve all that food.

First thing Friday morning we would hear Mother singing down in the kitchen as she carved the remaining meat. "Bringing in the Sheaves" was a good working tune, and she always stepped up the tempo to reflect her enthusiasm for the project.

She saved some of the bird so we could have sandwiches on home-made rolls with lettuce, mayo and sweet pickles. Then she lined up a series of casserole dishes into which she layered slices of turkey with mashed potatoes, dressing and gravy. These portions were frozen for quick meals in December, when time was scarce. She invented TV dinners before we had a TV.

She carefully set the bird's skin aside, then let it dry out a bit, because she intended to grind it up to make scrapple to fry with bacon and eggs for Saturday morning breakfast.

Next she enthusiastically tore the carcass apart. With a hammer she smashed the leg and wing bones then put everything into a big pot to boil for a couple of hours. She explained that if you don't break up the bones, you don't get the rich marrow flavor. She added some onions and leftover vegetables to the pot. Steam from that broth went up the stairway, permeating every corner of the house.

It smelled better than it looked, but out of that mushy mess came the best soup in the world. Sometimes she added home-made noodles or dumplings. Sometimes the stock became the main ingredient for cream of - potato, cauliflower, broccoli or turkey.

I believe that she looked at that rich broth the way Coco Chanel looked at a bolt of fabric: all possibilities.

So, when I wake up on the Friday morning after Thanksgiving I can't throw that turkey carcass into the dumpster and save myself hours of work. That would dishonor my mother's memory.

I set to work and hope that I remember how to do the job right. I assess that bird's possibilities, down to the very last giblet. And I hope my daughter sniffs the difference.

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For permission to reproduce it in part or in whole please contact: vcornell@manifestpub.com. Inquiries from newspapers and newsletters are welcomed.