Thanksgiving Culinary Endeavors: An Exercise in Patience and Wine

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My partner, Mark, possesses a driving style that leaves much to be desired. He’s constantly distracted by the world outside the car, whether it’s a rare bird in flight or an intriguing yard sale. As he swerves and weaves, I sit in the passenger seat with my “Wife with a Mission” voice in full effect, urging him to “Stay focused! Watch the road! Avoid that mailbox!”

Until I became a spouse and parent, my culinary skills were practically non-existent. My cooking repertoire consisted solely of takeout menus. So, it was perhaps inevitable that one day, I would find myself in the kitchen with Mark, who would be doling out his own version of the “Wife with a Mission” voice, reminding me to “Pay attention!”

Last Thanksgiving, I insisted we celebrate at home so I could realize my vision of a perfect family holiday. I imagined rising at dawn to prepare the turkey, donning an apron and pearls, and sipping wine while I crafted delectable pies and offered sage advice on the art of candied yams to anyone who entered my domain.

Despite Mark’s skepticism, I was convinced that this culinary adventure would be effortless, thanks to the combined wisdom of Martha Stewart and Pinterest.

After poring over back issues of Martha Stewart’s Thanksgiving specials and scouring Pinterest for recipes, I opened a bottle of wine and started pinning holiday ideas. By night’s end (and after finishing the wine), I’d created a wildly ambitious menu.

The day before Thanksgiving arrived, and after spending $389.00, I was all set—but utterly clueless. What would Martha do? Pour a glass of wine and tackle the simpler tasks, right?

I opened a can of cranberry sauce and poured it into a lovely glass bowl. My triumph was short-lived, however.

“Hey, did you start the pies yet? Where’s the turkey?” Mark asked, looking worried.

“Relax! I made cranberry sauce!” I replied, feeling quite proud.

“Sweetheart, it’s the day before Thanksgiving; the cranberry sauce can wait.”

“Just let me be, okay?” I snapped, as he exited the kitchen.

Six hours later, two burnt pies and a batch of pumpkin bread sabotaged by salt instead of sugar left me in dismay. We would discover that particular disaster only during the Thanksgiving feast.

The following day, Thanksgiving Day, felt like a race against time.

  • 4:30 AM: Alarm rings. Hit snooze repeatedly.
  • 8:45 AM: Awaken in a panic, realizing the time.
  • 8:53 AM: Coffee brewing, Pinterest open, Martha magazine on page 87.
  • 9:15 AM: Oh no! The turkey is still frozen!
  • 9:42 AM: Toss turkey in a lukewarm bath, pour a glass of wine, and hope for a miracle.
  • 9:47 AM: “You forgot to thaw the turkey, didn’t you?” Mark remarked. “I told you to remember.”
  • “Just drink your coffee!” I retorted.
  • “Let me help you,” he suggested. “You seem overwhelmed.”
  • “Just pass me the knife,” I replied tersely.

At 10:31 AM, the turkey was floating in the bathtub. I poked it and decided it was thawed enough to move to the kitchen. Pinterest advised cooking the stuffing separately, so I slathered the turkey with butter and seasoning, then shoved it into the oven.

“Is it fully thawed?” Mark asked, concern etched on his face.
“Of course!” I shot back. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Should I prepare the stuffing and gravy?” he offered.
“Just hand me the recipe,” I insisted.

A few moments later, he exclaimed, “Wait! You need to cook the sausage before adding it to the stuffing! You can’t be serious!”

By noon, I was in a culinary crisis. “What’s for lunch?” Mark inquired.
“Umm…” I had forgotten to turn on the oven. A wave of realization hit me.
“More wine,” I muttered to myself.

I turned on the oven, cautiously checked the turkey, and discovered it was still frozen in the center. “No one has to know,” I thought, shoving it into the oven, praying for some sort of miracle.

Unfortunately, the attempt was futile.

By 6:57 PM, after a string of culinary disasters, dinner was finally served—five hours late. The turkey was burned on the outside and uncooked within. I declared it “Cajun style,” and Mark wisely refrained from mentioning that he’d warned me about it to begin with.

Next year, we’re having Thanksgiving at my in-laws. Mark has my solemn promise on that one.

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In summary, Thanksgiving can be an overwhelming experience filled with unexpected challenges, but with a little humor and a lot of wine, even the most ambitious culinary dreams can be survived.


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