Let me start by saying my partner is not exactly the best on the road. I mean, he’s terrible. He has this uncanny ability to get distracted by everything except the task at hand. “Look at that bird!” he’ll exclaim, or “Did you see that chair at that yard sale?” Meanwhile, I’m sitting in the passenger seat with my “Nagging Partner Voice” cranked up, shouting, “Focus on the road! Watch the yellow line! Don’t hit that mailbox!”
Before I jumped into marriage and parenting, cooking was the last thing on my mind. My culinary experience was limited to takeout menus. So, it was probably inevitable that one day I’d find myself in the kitchen, with my partner deploying his own version of the “Nagging Partner Voice,” barking, “Pay attention!”
Last Thanksgiving, I decided we would host the festivities at home, determined to fulfill my vision of a picture-perfect holiday. I pictured myself rising at dawn to prepare a magnificent turkey, donning an apron and pearls like a scene from a vintage magazine. I dreamed of sipping wine throughout the day while whipping up delicious breads and pies, passing down wisdom about the art of perfectly candied yams to anyone who wandered into my kitchen.
With Martha Stewart and Pinterest as my allies, I felt invincible. I pulled out some old Martha Stewart Thanksgiving editions, searched Pinterest for festive recipes, and opened a bottle of wine to get started. By the end of the evening—thanks to a glass or two—I had curated a spectacularly misguided menu.
Fast forward to the day before Thanksgiving, and after dropping a whopping $389.00, I realized I was utterly clueless. What would Martha do? She’d probably enjoy a glass of wine and tackle the easy stuff first, right?
I opened a can of cranberry sauce and dumped it into a lovely bowl. A solid start, right? Until…
“Did you start the pies yet? Where’s the turkey?” my partner inquired.
“Whoa, easy there! Look! I made cranberry sauce!” I shot back.
“But honey, it’s the day before Thanksgiving; the cranberry sauce can wait,” he replied.
“Trust me, I’ve got this. Now, shoo!” I insisted.
Six hours later, I had burned two pies and mistakenly added salt instead of sugar to my pumpkin bread. The disaster wouldn’t reveal itself until the next day at dinner.
And so, Thanksgiving Day arrived, which I dubbed “Prove My Partner Wrong Day.”
4:30 AM: Alarm rings. I hit snooze… a few too many times.
8:45 AM: I wake up, realize the time, and nearly leap out of bed in panic.
8:53 AM: Coffee on, Pinterest activated, Martha magazine opened to page 87.
9:15 AM: What the heck? The turkey is still frozen!
9:42 AM: I fill the bathtub with lukewarm water, toss the turkey in its plastic covering, pour myself a glass of wine, and pray it thaws quickly.
9:47 AM:
“Did you forget to thaw the bird? I told you not to forget, but did you listen?” he chastised.
“Shut it and drink your coffee,” I snapped back.
“Really, it’s not that bad; let me help.”
“Nope, just pass me that knife, please.”
10:31 AM: The turkey is floating in the bathtub, and I poke it. It seems thawed enough. I wrap it in a towel and haul it to the kitchen.
Pinterest insists I should make stuffing separately. I slather the turkey in butter and toss in some seasoning. “In you go!” I exclaim.
“Did you check if it’s fully thawed?” he asks.
“Of course! I’m not an idiot. Stop pestering me!”
“Do you want me to make stuffing and gravy?”
“I want you to hand me that recipe!”
“Wait! You have to cook the sausage before mixing it into the stuffing. Are you trying to kill us?”
By noon, I was having a meltdown. “What’s for lunch?” he asked, to which I could only respond with a blank stare. I forgot to turn on the oven. “Sonofabitch!”
More wine.
Turn the oven on.
Make sure he’s not watching.
Check the turkey. It’s still frozen in the middle.
I considered just shoving it in the oven and hoping for the best. I mean, higher heat might do the trick, right?
I was wrong.
6:57 PM: After ruining the pies, only partially baking the breads, forgetting about rolls and candied yams, and muttering “Martha can go to hell” more times than I can count, dinner was finally ready—five hours late.
The turkey was burnt on the outside and still raw on the inside. “It’s Cajun style,” I declared to the guests, who were trying to hide their laughter. To his credit, my partner didn’t mention his earlier warnings.
Next year, we’re heading to my in-laws for the holiday. (You have my word, dear.)
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In summary, Thanksgiving cooking can be a chaotic experience, filled with mishaps and unexpected challenges. However, it’s a time for laughter, love, and perhaps learning when to delegate the cooking duties.