I HAVE ALWAYS loved Thanksgiving. Growing up, the holiday was usually just the three of us–my mom and dad and only-child me. After my dad died, the holidays didn’t matter much to my mom, and so during the years we lived on opposite sides of the country, we often spent them apart.
Instead, I hosted big orphans’ dinners–meaning, of course, that anyone else without family summoning them home could gather at my place. My darling sister-in-spirit Leslie was my roommate and co-host for many of these feasts, sometimes for groups of more than 20, even when we lived in pretty small digs.
I always roasted the turkey, with a cornbread, apple and sausage stuffing. I always made mashed potatoes (I make really great mashed potatoes.) I always baked at least one pie, and Leslie always served her deservedly famous sweet potato pie. (I am one of the few people on earth to have her recipe, because I’m special. To her, anyway. And don’t ask, because I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to share it.)
What is it about Thanksgiving that turns a semi-reasonable, often-pleasant woman into the Stuffing Nazi?
When my now-husband and I got together, the dinners continued, for a while. Actually, he first met (and quickly alienated–but that’s another story) many of my dearest friends at Thanksgiving dinner exactly thirteen years ago. After we married, I found myself in the midst of his family. It’s one of the things I love and loved about him–his assorted aunts and uncles and half brothers and in-laws and step-cousins felt like a big messy sweater I could disappear into. But of course, there’s a trade-off–in a big family, one person can’t control the holidays. Not any of them.
I suspect that those of you with sisters already knew this.
And, as it turns out, after all those years of gathering my created family around me–I am a massive control freak when it comes to Thanksgiving.
Five years ago was the low point. I pitched a huge fit–I didn’t want to go to his (wonderful) aunt’s house; I didn’t want our holiday overwhelmed by her large, extended family. I wanted my stuffing, my pies. I was kind of horrible about it, and my husband told me so, but I managed to get my way. Everyone would come to us. The menu was mine to orchestrate.
I’m convinced that the epic, high-fever, delirious virus that struck us all down six days before the holiday was entirely due to my, and karma, being a bitch. I had to cancel our dinner (uninviting friends and family in the process).
Our celebration consisted of reheated leftovers dropped on our (infectious) doorstep by one of my best (hastily uninvited) friends, Chris. Leslie dropped off a pie. We ate while watching “Monsters Inc.” with our feverish, monstrous toddler–for the 12th time in half as many days. We reap what we sow, baby.
But, here’s the thing. The dinner Chris threw together? Nothing had ever tasted so good. Leslie’s pie? As ever, divine. My pseudo-sissies had saved me. That dinner, eaten in pajamas in front of the TV, was every bit as delicious as any that I had slaved over in previous years. I felt every bit as thankful, maybe more so.
In the perfect world I don’t live in, this story would end right here, with me having learned my lesson, a better person for relinquishing the need to be a petty martinet every November. Ah. But this is not a perfect world. And I know this, because the next year, I did it again. What is it about Thanksgiving that turns a semi-reasonable, often-pleasant woman into the Stuffing Nazi? I can’t blame it on my love of cooking–that quality brings me good fortune, like, say, being the food editrix here at The Sister Project. (And on that subject, click over to see our interview with and recipes from the Fabulous Cooking McColl Sisters. They’ve got two great hors d’ouevre recipes that are easier than pie, and perfect for Thanksgiving, whether you’re hosting or being hosted.)
And meanwhile, before you dive into your own Thanksgiving feast, please, sisters, please–tell me I am not the only one who stomps her feet when she has to eat someone else’s sweet potato casserole or creamed onions…
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My favorite Thanksgivings have always been of the orphan variety. In fact, this year will be the first year E. and I venture out to a family Thanksgiving. Wish me luck! Because I too am cooking like crazy to have my own kitchen represented at someone else’s house tomorrow.
Looking at the picture that accompanies this post I am sad to be away from you for Thanksgiving as some of the best ones were those huge orphan meals we had. I was just looking at pictures from one in Culver City during grad school. It’s all about the family you make isn’t it?
And no… you many not share that recipe!!!!!
If I didn’t know there was a follow-up post I would write more here, but I’m eager to go read it!!