"Turkey Day." The name strikes fear in the hearts of cooks everywhere. It's the day when family descends upon the dining room like a band of marauding Huns upon a hapless mountain village.

If the person holding the serving spoon doesn't move fast enough, he's liable to lose a finger.

Since my three kids left home, I've taken advantage of every convenience food known to mankind. If you can carry it out, dine in on it, microwave it or boil it in a bag, I've tried it. If it comes frozen in a box, vacuum-sealed in a pouch, or freeze-dried in a packet, I'm on board.

After all, I'm juggling several jobs, I have a husband to take care of (when he isn't taking care me), and so far nobody's invented a self-cleaning house. How can I be expected to whip up the kind of elaborate home-cooked meals every night-complete with homemade biscuits-that I did when the kids were growing up? I only did that because I wanted them to love me (and because their friends often came for dinner, and I enjoyed being the mom whose meatloaf was the stuff of legend).

OK, I admit it: I was making like Aunt Bee in the kitchen to rack up points with my kids. But they're the ones who are going to choose my nursing home someday, so I don't think it was time wasted.

But now that it's just Doug and me, I don't cook as often -- or as elaborately -- as I used to. In truth, I've figured out more ways to avoid cooking than a porcupine's got quills.

I guess you could say I'm a tad out of practice.

Yet for some reason, every Thanksgiving, the kids, their friends, my mom, my sister and her family -- they all look at me like I'm Martha Stewart. It's assumed I'll dust off my roasting pan, get my gravy boat out of storage and darn the moth-holes in my cloth napkins.

Not being one to disappoint anybody, a week before the holiday I go into battle mode.

I start with a shopping list that takes up three legal-size sheets of paper, both sides. It's divided into "dry goods," "perishables" and "Stupid Decorations Everyone Will Laugh At."

My usual light breakfast won't fortify me for this shopping trip; I'll need a hearty repast of oatmeal, three scrambled eggs, a side of bacon, four pieces of toast, a pint of apple juice, a short stack of flapjacks and a six-pack of Red Bull.

Six hours and 12 stores later, I'm back with supplies and equipment including: disposable roasting and cooking pans (I'm no dummy); 10 loaves of French bread for stuffing; five pounds of fresh cranberries for homemade relish (and five cans of store-bought jellied cranberry sauce for the party-poopers in the crowd); 20 pounds of potatoes; 10 pounds of yams (plus three bags of marshmallows); an 8-pound ham; and 28-pound turkey.

By the time I've carted in all inside, I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame (and I think I know why he was so cranky).

I prepare as many of the dishes as possible ahead of time -- the pumpkin and pecan pies, the yam casserole and the stuffing -- but on Thanksgiving Day the alarm rings at 5 a.m. so I can prepare that monster turkey for the oven.

By the time everyone sits down at a table so obscured by serving platters, there's no room for the butter and I've lost 10 pounds (and a Band-Aid ... probably in the mashed potatoes).

Later, everyone is groaning in bloated agony, loosening their waistbands to make room for pie, and I'm staring at a turkey carcass that looks like it's been beset by piranas and several unsteady piles of well used, heavy-duty paper plates.

Hey, I cook or I do dishes. I do NOT do both. Get over it.

user comments (1)

user efanto says...

I so enjoy these columns and wanted to sign up to be sure to get them.

Posted 1:56 PM, 12.01.08

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