Editor's Note: Internationally acclaimed writer Jean Bell Mosley of Cape Girardeau has graciously agreed to write a special Thanksgiving column as a gift to our readers.

The pantry at our home looked like an afterthought of architecture. It was attached to the north wall of the kitchen, three-sides of it being on the outside. The door leading to and from the kitchen was fastened by a well-worn wooden latch that could be twisted shut or open.

We looked upon the pantry as being a capital asset all year long, but it was at the beginning of the Thanksgiving/Christmas season when it really became a foremost fixture to our epicurean welfare.

There were two wide shelves on two sides and a many-shelved wall on the third. Mama and Grandma insisted that these shelves be lined with scalloped shelf lining cut from newspapers. If we could make it from the colored sections of the "funnies," so much the better.

Under the wide shelves were two ten gallon cans of leaf lard, rendered from our own hogs at butchering times. It was so pleasing to use a wooden spoon and skim along the top of the lard, watching it curl up. Mama and Grandma knew just how many curls to make for the pie crusts, cakes and biscuits. The lard smelled good too. Rich and earthy.

On top of the wide shelves were big sacks of cornmeal, flour and sugar and pans that were too large to hang on the wall above.

Because the pantry was so cold in the wintertime, a ham or "middlin" could be kept there instead of having to go to the smokehouse so often.

There was a small casement window on the north side which was seldom opened but regularly washed so that we could look and see the smokehouse and the well, two other capital assets.

From the wall of many shelves there emanated a wonderful essence of all kinds of spices and dried herbs. Maybe the cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice were the stronger ones, but the great hank of sage had its say too. Our dried herbs usually hung from beams in the smokehouse but since sage was used nearly every morning in the pork sausage, it was handier to keep it there.

Assorted jellies, jams- and other canned food bought up from the cellar from time to time rested there too.

At Thanksgiving, Grandma would pick out the likeliest looking pumpkin, halve it, seed it, peel it, cut into cubes and slowly cook it in the black iron kettle, suitably seasoned with spices .

Everyone loved to be in the kitchen when the pumpkins were cooking. We knew what was coming up.

At dinner, the pies (always two) with high fluted edges, sat in the middle of the table. Their baking fragrance still hung in the air.

After all were seated, prayers were started beginning with the oldest and coming down to the youngest, me.

There were six before me and thanks were given for nearly everything before it was my turn.

One Thanksgiving I simply said, "Thank you, Lord, for the pantry." Everyone said "Amen" and no one looked surprised.

REJOICE!