The Morning After
About five years ago, my somewhat newly-blended family finally settled in to what would become our annual Thanksgiving tradition. Since my husband typically works on Thanksgiving Day and the older girls were visiting their mother that year, my parents and grandmother drove up to our house on Thanksgiving morning. By the time the dinner hour rolled around and Hubs got home, we had Thanksgiving dinner ready and on the table. It has worked out so well that we’ve done it this way each year since– Hubs works and the older girls are sometimes with us and sometimes not, but the little ones and I still get in our traditional Thanksgiving family time in by hosting my parents and grandmother for a few days.
As for the meal itself, in a move that turned out to be sheer brilliance we began buying our turkey already deep-fried by a local Cajun man. That way, I was able to focus all my attention on the sides, which over the years have become epic. As some of you know, I love to cook and Thanksgiving Day has become my own personal marathon–a sort of Iron Chef battle. Against myself.
Each year, I agonize over what to include on the menu. Should I go with my great grandmother’s famous Chunky Pumpkin Pie or opt for my own mouthwatering Chocolate Stout Cake? Can I manage a five cheese macaroni in addition to my mashed potatoes with caramelized shallots? Would it be crazy to make two dressings, since I can’t decide between a five-star cornbread dressing and a showstopping wild mushroom and sausage one?
Once the menu is finally set, I map out when, where and how to prepare each dish with military-like precision. Diagrams and tables are drawn on oversized paper and a laser pointer may or may not be used. The stuffing will go into the convection oven at 13 hundred hours, the squash souffle and broccoli casseroles can cook at the same time in the big oven at 15 hundred hours, the cranberry sauce takes three hours in the slow cooker, the macaroni and cheese can bake in the toaster oven, and the green beans can cook on the stove. Of course, with these elaborate plans, the first few years I was a sweaty wreck by the time the dinner bell actually rang. My family learned to simply stand back and watch me race frenetically around the kitchen, mumbling to myself as I desperately attempted to get everything out on the table.
But over time, things have changed.
By this year, the Thankgivings of yore had managed to wear a sort of groove into my brain, and despite the fact that I’m busier now than I’ve ever been in my life, I found myself instinctively getting everything for the big day done on time. I planned my menu on Monday, beat the crowd by shopping on Tuesday, had the entire house cleaned and ready for guests, ironed the linens for the Thanksgiving table, and even managed to bake a cake, put together a few appetizers, and make cornbread for the cornbread stuffing on Wednesday.
Thursday morning dawned clear and bright and for the first time ever, I was right on schedule. I showered and dressed and got to work setting the perfect Thanksgiving table with my perfectly ironed linens and my spotless fine crystal and china. Then I got to work in my sparkling clean kitchen. In quick succession I made:
Sausage and Wild Mushroom Stuffing
Slow Cooker Cornbread Dressing
Yeast Rolls
Creamed Corn
Cranberry Sauce
And I made icing for my Hummingbird Cake.
My parents arrived with squash souffle, broccoli casserole and ambrosia. Could they help, they wondered? No! I insisted gaily, setting out homemade dip along with a selection of sliced sausages, cheeses and crackers. Everything was under control!
It was unreal! I was like a Stepford Wife! Gone were the armpit stains of Thanksgivings past! The menu miscalculations! The tears! The shouting! The rocking back and forth in a corner!
I was chock full of WIN!
And then, all too soon, the next day dawned.
I stumbled out of bed, wrapped an old robe around me, and shuffled downstairs to the den, where I slumped onto the sofa. And that’s where I stayed for the next five hours.I felt- and looked- like I had been run over by a mac truck. Did someone say the kids want candy for breakfast? Sure, as long as they get it themselves. Was there a rumbling from houseguests who wanted to be entertained? Um. Too bad.
I was one not-so-hot mess.
This was me for the vast majority of Friday. My poor parents and grandmother were forced to occupy themselves with back issues of Star Magazine and whatever I’d managed to tape on DVR. I was a drooling shell of the daughter I had been the day before.
The jig was up. Thanksgiving? That had all been an act. I was still the worst hostess ever, just as I had been the year before. It wasn’t until my husband got home from work and took my parents and I out to Holland House for drinks that the day finally– at 8pm- got turned around.
I was full of fail. Post-Thanksgiving FAIL.
My houseguests got the hell out of Dodge on Saturday morning, which was a good thing because it was another day of bathrobes and mumbling for me. Yes. It took me a full two days to recover from my Thanksgiving high.
Martha I am not and will never be. But I will say this.
I can make one hell of a stuffing.
