I’m on the verge of doing something terrifying. I might offer to host Thanksgiving.
Fourth of July is easy. Been there, done that. Easter? No sweat. Christmas is a lot harder, but I’m experienced. Last December I cooked for 20 people.
But Thanksgiving has so many strings attached I get flustered even thinking about it.
First I’d have to hunt for the right bird. I know how to coupon and get a gigantic free turkey. But would a factory farmed bird taste as good as an heirloom variety? I’m not a historical expert, but I’m pretty certain pilgrims didn’t eat turkeys that resembled Dolly Parton.
Then there’s the whole “cage free” question. Usually I’m willing to pay extra for pastured poultry, especially if it’s local. I’m the person who buys organic, free-range, soy-free eggs. But I’ve heard turkeys are really mean. Please don’t tell PETA, but perhaps I don’t actually care about a turkey’s quality of life.
Acknowledging my own indifference to turkey suffering is a dark stain on my conscious. It’s not winter yet and I already feel frosty.
If I was really going to be humane, I’d cook a vegan dinner. Years of meatless Mondays have taught me how to make a delightful nut-loaf. But I’m pretty sure there’d be a riot if I showed up at my dining room table with hazelnut-and-quinoa shaped drumsticks.
Maybe for now I should focus on less controversial dishes like yams. Or are they sweet potatoes? I always get the two mixed up. Probably I’ll need to make both, to be safe. Then when I put them out on the buffet I’ll say it really fast. “Here are the sweet potatoes and yams.” Everyone will think I know what I’m talking about. Really I’ll just have mashed some random tubers.
Plus, I’ve got to make stuffing and bake rolls. Holy cow that’s a lot of starch! At least I can farm out the pies. My mother-in-law rolls out pie crust that rivals Martha Stewart.
OK, Thanksgiving, I think I can handle you … or maybe not. There’s one essential element that would be my undoing — gravy.
I can picture it now. All oven timers are beeping at once. Half a dozen kids run through the kitchen sloshing punch all over the place. My husband wears an apron and carves up the turkey. Then there’s me at the stove freaking out over the drippings.
“More water! No, I mean less water — and flour. Does it need flour? What are those dark and crackly things? Uh, oh, this doesn’t look good. I’m not ready for the gravy boat yet!”
If it was up to me, I’d serve a premade meal from QFC. Then I’d pour myself a glass of wine and enjoy Thanksgiving for real.
Until that day of relaxation comes, it’s time to face facts. I’m too turkey to host Thanksgiving.
Jennifer Bardsley is an Edmonds mom of two and blogs at www.heraldnet.com/ibrakeformoms and teachingmybabytoread.com.
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