Thanksgiving, Unfiltered
1) Make mental lists of pros and cons for WEEKS. Finally decide to move past my disdain for Thanksgiving. Invite people over for a traditional meal for the first time in years. Send out the texts. Immediately panic at the thought of even one person saying “yes,” because it will mean I’ll have to put more than zero effort into menu planning this year. Wonder how rude it would be to order pizza, encourage pajamas, and have my Christmas boxes piled in the foyer ready to unload the minute guests head home.
2) Drag my heels on menu planning because “I still have two weeks.” Make a quick stop at the grocery store for milk. Stand in the middle of the dairy aisle, frozen by the realization that the supplies of turkeys, cranberries, stuffing, and all other Thanksgiving staples are running low already, thereby making me less organized than others for the first time in my life.
3) Commit an entire evening to finding recipes that will awe and inspire our guests. Feel overwhelmed by my inadequacy as a cook. Delete the Pinterest board I just spent an hour creating. Decide to embrace words like “basic,” “low-maintenance,” and “humble” for my Thanksgiving theme.
4) Head back to the store for provisions. All the Thanksgiving decor and paper goods have already been replaced by Christmas products. Wonder why I didn’t know this would be a problem. Then remember this is the first time I’ve needed Thanksgiving-themed anything in seven years so, of course, I didn’t know. Silently curse the beast that is retail marketing and their incessant force of Christmas spirit on the TENTH OF NOVEMBER. Baby Jesus will have His day, but right now I just need some paper plates that say “Thankful” and a jolly-looking Tom Turkey on some napkins for the love of all that is holy.
5) Make my way over to the frozen turkeys. Ask Siri to calculate the size I’ll need and the number of days to thaw it. Hear the judgement in her voice, convinced she knows I’ve waited too long to ask this question. Check the price tag and experience a small stroke at the young age of 39. Consider how our guests would feel about a “suggested donation” in exchange for opening our home to them on Thanksgiving. Next, consider making dinner a potluck. Remember I’m way too much of a control freak to hand the reins over for even so much as a side dish. Start to rank my friends in order of importance to determine whose Christmas gift I can forego so I can pay for the turkey.
6) Bring all the groceries home. Unload everything before it dawns on me I don’t own an industrial-size refrigerator. Play a lengthy game of Tetris with an irrational amount of perishable food. Come to terms with the fact I’ll need to make sacrifices for space. Pull out a liter of cold brew coffee and chug it right out of the bottle because the idea of throwing it away just to make room for KALE is a decision I’ll never be able to live with. The caffeine kicks in, making me feel I can do anything. I am the Martha Stewart of Thanksgiving. I’VE GOT THIS. My single oven tells me otherwise.
7) Turn my attention to something easier, like my wardrobe. Opt for a warm, jewel-toned sweater, jeans, and cognac leather ankle boots. Perfect autumnal attire. Comfy, but not lazy looking. Finish it off with earrings and a smattering of eye shadow before tackling the dinner prep. One hour later I’m sweating through my cable knit. Between the heat of the oven and the stovetop, the temperature in my kitchen has reached 95 degrees. My eyeliner smudges when I wipe my brow with the oven mitt still on my hand and I have red wine splattered on my boots, which are now filled with blood because standing in heels for longer than fifteen minutes will do that to a person. Swipe on another coat of both deodorant and eyeliner, then spray my sweater with Febreze to mask the lingering smell of gravy, knowing I won’t have a chance to shower or change clothes before the doorbell rings.
8) Chop, stir, saute, baste, and brine all day long, and try to remember why I put myself through all this trouble just to show I’m “thankful.” Mutter things like, “I’ll be thankful when this day is over,” as I nurse my third hot oil burn of the day. Set my sights on the pumpkin pie and extra-large tub of Cool Whip chilling in the fridge. Wonder what everyone else will eat for dessert.
9) Spend the evening enjoying the pleasure of our friends’ company. Respond to their compliments and gratitude for the meal with things like, “It was no trouble,” and “I’m so happy to do it!” Try to tell myself I love these people and it was worth it. And it’s true. I do and it was.
10) Once our guests leave, stay up well past my bedtime helping wash dishes and packing up leftovers. Stare into my fridge, baffled. Wonder how there seems to be even less space than there was before. Fall onto the couch, exhausted. Eat Cool Whip right out of the tub and watch the Friends marathon of Thanksgiving episodes. Hear my husband say, “At least you won’t have to cook again for a few days. We have so many leftovers to eat from.” Feel consoled by this. Then remember I hate leftovers.