I don't know when, or why, Thanksgiving overtook Christmas for my family, but it may have been the year we stuffed the turkey with tiny chocolate Santas, lit firecrackers and oranges and encouraged the youth to go for it. "Plunge a hand in there. Up to the elbow, or you're not really trying. Everybody needs to stop crying, right now."
Or it may be that Thanksgiving is all the fun, all the ruckus, all the excitement and all of the food of Christmas, with no material expectations or obligations. And my family can be together, all of us, with no complicated "Well, IT IS CHRISTMAS" rules to uphold. And now there is a baby to fight over, the first of a new generation, with another set of extended relatives that haven't been pirated by our family who would like to see her, so while we won the baby last year, I think we're officially disqualified from entering this year. You just eat and laugh and make fun of one another and no one has to do anything but that.
I have been planning, prepping
and cooking my family's Thanksgiving dinner, with help, for almost
seven years now. That is a long time, looking back on it, and I am
about to sound world weary, a mother of five who at thirty-seven is
about to pass down some tips. No. I am twenty-six, and since my
paternal Grandma's (the Matriarch of Holiday Cooking) declining health
and eventual death coincided with my growing, obsessive interest in
cooking, I was nineteen and dumb and wrestled my way into the hot seat.
The year was 1848. I watched every cooking special, read every
holiday issue of Martha Stewart, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Food and Wine,
Fine Cooking, Cooks Illustrated and on and on over the years, until there was nothing
left but to dig in. And I did. Complicated, ridiculous menus,
appetizers so rich and heavy that after just hearing about them,
because I talked about those menus a lot, no one had room to eat. I was
going to cook, they were going to eat, and I was going to make every
single item I wanted to. Regardless of whether or not people would eat
it. Shut up about the yams. No one eats the yams. BUT WE ARE HAVING
YAMS. THEY WILL GO. IN YOUR MOUTH.
THE GODDAMN YAMS.
I can't talk about those years, the showdowns the day before in the grocery store between my mom and I, my Midwestern mom who was hosting and financing the event and would like to know what is wrong with a boneless turkey breast and one box of Stovetop Stuffing to feed 19 people, while I, age 20, was wondering why I could not find vacuum-sealed chestnuts in a suburban grocery store. Right now I'm giving thanks that I never attempted to brine a turkey. There's something chilling about that image, a short young woman holding raw poultry in her hands at twilight, swearing and kicking it across the lawn, filling a leaky cooler with herb-scented saline solution and praying nobody dies the next day. Or maybe, because we're practical, praying that not everyone dies.
But I calmed down, grew up, and now I am beyond where I ever thought I'd be when it comes to Holiday Meals. This year I look forward to a lot of things, the top item being Day-After turkey sandwiches on good bread with Kewpie mayonnaise and pickles. I have a list of things I'd like to make, my kitchen partner-in-crime has her list, lists vetted by various family members who fill me in on their ever-changing likes, dislikes, allowances and so on. I like to keep these lists, look back over the years at what I'd planned and what made it to the table, what was cooked and what was actually eaten. What we ate for what seemed like a year, and what we all mourned when looking over the leftovers.
Oh, Thanksgiving is a lovely day. So this year, I hope you fall to your knees and no matter your denomination or views on the matter, bow down to the naked bird and hug your loved ones close, eat and don't let everybody else take all the good stuff home. I'm not done talking about the day, but I wanted to make sure I wished you a happy one right off the bat.
Next up: What I plan to shove in the faces of my loved ones this year.
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