The Magic of Mom’s Flour Can

I spent my childhood in McCook, Nebraska, surrounded by golden fields of corn and a vast, open sky. It was a quintessential small town brought to life by the local community college, often the first stepping stone for young men with dreams of wearing the proud red and white of the Nebraska Cornhuskers.

During this time of year, those who couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving were welcomed into the hearts and homes of local families. My family was one of those who embraced them. To my eyes, these young men appeared colossal—great, towering figures with hearts as massive as their frames.

Gatherings like these wove the fabric of my childhood, stitched together through preparing and sharing meals, heartfelt stories, and dreams that danced on air. At the center of each was a bounty of food that my mom spent days preparing. It wasn’t uncommon to see one of those young men go through the line, a plate piled high with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and vegetables, all topped off by four dinner rolls. Round one. 🙂

Though holiday gatherings have grown quieter with the loss of so many beloved family members, one treasured heirloom remains and can instantly transport me back in time: my mom’s flour can.

Once filled with pretzels, this ordinary container holds immeasurable value—not in terms of money but as a profound symbol of family, community, and the joy of sharing—of caring for others. Its presence reminds me of the warmth of love and connection that we built together, and as such, it is truly priceless.