I don't know why I continue to insist that we can host Thanksgiving dinner and that it will be perfect.
This year's plan was brilliant. And yet, by the end, I was again left wondering why I thought it was a great idea. As I do pretty much every year. I can't be taught.
Here was the plan:
We would invite both sets of parents over for dinner. To accommodate that many people, we bought a new dinning room table which would seat 8. Understanding the reality of my cooking ability (of which there is precious little), I delegated most of the meal to mothers who were eager to make (his mom) or buy (my mom) whatever needs to be made/bought. His mom would bring the cheesy potatoes (which could have been all I ate, quite frankly) and cranberry ecstasy, my mom gave me a turkey, bread, and a frozen pumpkin pie to prepare. Jamie would make the gravy and green beans. I would make mashed potatoes and set the table. For our after-dinner entertainment, his parents would share pictures from their latest trip.
Perfect, no? No.
The super-wonderful table set we bought for the occasion was perfect. Beautiful dark wood, great size for the house (with a butterfly insert), shiny and new and, as of Thanksgiving morning, somewhere in a truck in the Midwest, slowly trudging our way. We still don't have it. So we would have to huddle around a small table for four, with someone sitting on an ottoman and someone sitting in an office chair. Rather imperfect.
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
Jamie bounced from bed at 9:30, running to the kitchen in a panic, "Got to put the turkey in!" I laid there wondering what on earth he was fretting about but decided not to interfere. It wasn't until 1:30, when I asked him how much longer the turkey had, that we realized that the turkey was going to be ready an hour before we were ready to eat. Apparently, my email communication which said, "Please arrive between 2:30 and 3:00" confused him into thinking it said, "We are eating at 2:30 on the dot."
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
We turned the oven off, covered the turkey, and left it in the warm oven. By the time we were ready to eat, it was perfect. My father, however, was too ill to make it. Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday -- it was sad to not look down the table and not see his mashed potato volcano. It felt more than incomplete; it felt wrong.
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
Once the turkey was out of the oven, we had planned to put in the frozen pumpkin pie. By the time we finished eating, cleaned up, and sat down to look at trip pics, it would be ready. I took the pie out of the freezer and started to open the box. The pie should have slipped right out, but it was stuck. I therefore peeled back the cardboard. The first thing I saw was pie crust -- which is the best part of pie. What I found terribly odd was how much pie crust I saw. And how little pumpkin filling. As I peeled the whole of the box back, I saw the pumpkin: a nice, perfectly rectangular slab of pumpkin neatly stored at one end of the box. Apparently, the pie had melted at some point and then been put in the freezer on its side where it separated. "Uh oh," I said. Parent radar went up.
"Did you drop the turkey on the floor?"
?
"Um. No. But I think we have no dessert." I walked into the family room and showed the box of crust and square pumpkin filling. Not missing a beat, my mother said,
"Gretchen! You are supposed to take it out of the box before you cook it." She's familiar with my work.
"Carolyn!" I replied like the delicate flower that I am, "It's still frozen."
"Oh."
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
We ended up putting the pie in the oven and hoped it would just settle back into place. Meanwhile, I started to clean up. My mother stood chatting with his mother in the kitchen, telling her wild stories about our extended family. I smiled to myself thinking how relaxed everyone seemed to be, sipping wine, feeling comfortable, telling stories, not feeding the dogs people food. But it was just when I finished having that thought when my mother accidentally knocked a wine glass off of the counter and it shattered on the floor. Note: she was the only one not drinking and this was a move I would have predicted I would have pulled.
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
We sat around and looked at the trip to China pics and, when those were done, the conversation turned to that inevitable place: when were we going to get married and the fact that I put on my wedding dress all the time. To try to get that conversation off track, and satisfy people's desire to see me in my dress, I pulled up some pictures of me in it. This backfired and only served to heat up the discussion on the wedding.
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
After dinner, after China pictures, we stopped by another family-member's house for dessert and drinks. About half way through our time there, I realized that we had forgotten all about the pie which was still in the oven. Whether or not the oven was on (and if the house was on fire) was in debate.
But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.
The oven was not on, the house had not burned down, and the pie was cooked perfectly. Which meant that I would have the pie all to myself.
And that's what did it. After ODing later that night on pumpkin pie, running upstairs to try on my thin pants and finding that they didn't fit (shocker), and that the presence of more pie in the house was going to lead to 20 lb weight gain (overnight) which would lead to ill-fitting clothes which would lead to a general lack of feeling fabulous which would lead to others not buying into my general fabulous appeal (you may not comment on that) which would lead to loss of friends, job, creativity, and ultimately to writer's block which would lead to depression, lack of focus, lack of self-identity, and, ultimately, a catatonic state.
So I threw out the pie.
And wondered why I thought Thanksgiving Dinner was a good idea.
But Christmas dinner will be perfect.
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