I Just Don’t Cook
I excel at other things. Planning, making and serving large family dinners have never been one of my fortes. My family, however, had other ideas the year my dad passed away and I found myself pregnant with my son.
I was about 8 weeks in when my family thought it might be a good idea to have Thanksgiving at my house. Having never hosted a family holiday (that was my sisters’ jobs), I wasn’t sure I was up for the task but being hormonally challenged at the time, I agreed. That was my first mistake; as I undoubtedly would have to host this dinner, sober.
Murphy’s Law
So I shopped for the big bird. Strangely enough, in my newfound mindset of maternal musings, I found myself actually looking forward to this event and contemplating place settings and intricate autumnal table décor. Thankfully those latter thoughts passed quickly.
“There’s something wrong with the stove,” I informed my husband, two days before Thanksgiving.
He did his best MacGyver maneuverings, but the old range was having none of it and so I found myself in the unlikely predicament of being too old to be newly pregnant, too stressed about being a good hostess and one stove short of pulling it all off.
Sears delivered a new stove in record time. I couldn’t help but wonder if the universe was trying to pound it into my head that I was not one to cook.
Thank God for Eggnog
In addition to green bean casserole, my sister in law’s mother has a remarkable recipe for eggnog. She doesn’t reveal her secret to anyone but suffice to say that most people after just a small swig are more than happy to eat whatever is put in front of them.
The stove arrived the day before the cooking began. It was unwrapped and pristine looking. It smelled like “new appliance.” I was so thrilled that I even contemplated the new place settings again.
The day came and as my guests arrived I felt a sort of triumphant thrill that I had somehow succeeded. I had somehow quieted that inner voice that tells me I can’t cook. Appetizers were noshed on and conversations were rich and funny. The men folk had football on the screen and beers in hand and the women took to the kitchen like nurturing gladiators. Sandy whipped up a vat of Eggnog and began passing it around. I took a long sniff and felt lightheaded just from the fumes. I thought about fetal alcohol syndrome and then tended to the turkey.
Dinner Is Served
With a buffet style set-up everyone loaded up his or her plates and gathered at the large folding table adorned with a tablecloth that screamed “I am trying to reflect the season,” bought in a last minute Martha Stewart ditch effort. There was the usual comedic banter that my family is known for and I watched with pride as people dug in whole-heartedly to the potatoes and stuffing, the green bean casserole, the biscuits and cranberry sauce. “But what about the turkey?” I thought to myself. Nobody seemed to be going back for seconds. After the 30-minute inhaling of the food that takes an entire day to prepare, the men retired to the game and the women to the dishes. I prepared the to-go tins and found most were filled with just turkey. How strange. I chalked it up to the eggnog.
New Appliance Smell
My son was two when the truth about Thanksgiving came out. We were gathered at a family get together for my niece’s baby’s christening when the subject of holidays became the topic of conversation. “Perhaps we can do Thanksgiving at your house this year?” I asked, hoping to get out of ever having to host again.
“We will do it anywhere but your house,” became the resounding sentiment.
“What?” I was astonished.
I thought I had done a tremendous job being both peri-menopausal and pregnant. I was horrified by the truth.
“Sorry Aunt Nancy,” my godchild explained, “but that was the worst turkey ever.”
The voices all seemed to chime in at the same time. Adjectives flew like chards of glass: disgusting, retching, inedible, metallic, poisonous and gag-worthy amongst some of the kindest.
It was the oven’s fault and apparently there is something known as “new appliance smell” that had somehow seeped its way into my beautiful bird.
Strangely enough after all the insults were out in the open, I took a deep sigh, smiled, and thanked the universe for the mysterious ways in which works.
Gobble gobble…