Thanksgiving Leftovers

Today is the day after the “day of gluttonous feasting.” The day after – when dishes are done, leftovers are conveniently stored in the fridge so that if you happen to get hungry today, you can grab a turkey drumstick on your way to whatever Black Friday special you simply MUST HAVE.

So I thought I’d take time to offer some insight into a home cook’s Thanksgiving reflections.

  1. Timing:
    When you tell your guests that Thanksgiving will be ready at 4 p.m. that kinda means dinner will be ready at 4 p.m. If you show up at 5, and don’t alert us beforehand, you can come in and maybe get some dessert if you are lucky. If you show up at 2 and I’m in the kitchen cooking, I’m probably going to throw a hot sweet potato at you.

    kanye

  2. Dietary Restrictions:
    Here’s the thing. If I ask you “do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions I need to know about” what I really mean is “I don’t give a shit.” I DO want to know if you have a shellfish allergy and I’m serving shrimp on Thanksgiving, for some reason, so I don’t kill you. But that’s the extent of it. I don’t really care that you are “trying to eat vegetarian.” I make my Italian sausage cornbread stuffing. You don’t want the sausage, spit it out. Likewise if you are “putting your body into ketosis” that’s your problem. You don’t want the cornbread part of the stuffing? Spit it on the vegetarian’s plate and you can have her sausage.

    Back when we were kids, we got Thanksgiving dinner. Nobody asked us what we liked. We ate it. We gave thanks, damn it, even if we didn’t like the sweet potato casserole thing that Mom made. We were thankful that on Thanksgiving the napkins were big enough to hide that casserole underneath. Nobody cared if you were “cutting carbs” or “avoiding animal fats.” Do it on your own time. But don’t bore me with your laundry list of things you can and can’t eat. And please don’t ask me to “pull aside” something before adding whatever. What I will pull aside is a wooden spoon and chase you out of the kitchen.
    italian grandma

  3. Etiquette While Dining:
    Dialog and conversation is allowed. As long as the dialog and conversation mainly revolves around the food. Take note on this: the person who cooked the fabulous meal that sits in front of you, most likely started at 3 in the morning (yes, yes I did). And worked until 4 p.m. when the last bit of gravy is poured (and after a few glasses of chianti). So when you are tucking into my succulent turkey cooked in the Cordon Bleu technique, the sweet potatoes with meringue topping straight out of the most recent Cooking Light magazine, brussels with warm, whole grain mustard vinaigrette, or fresh cranberry orange relish; you must (and there are no exceptions) exclaim loudly with each bite “this is the most delicious and amazing food that has ever passed my lips.” You may then (and only then) continue with whatever conversational topic you choose, and if it’s political,  I have to agree with you. My house, my kitchen, my wooden spoons.
  4. Leftovers:
    There are none. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain shoving everything into the fridge. It’s a mirage. Sleight of hand. Because for a home cook who was cooking and prepping for 13 hours, leftovers are the artesian springs in the middle of the arid desert. Mecca. Because leftover means that, for at least the next 3 days, my husband won’t ask “what’s for dinner?” or even “what are we having for lunch?” My clever sister Jen even incorporated stuffing into scrambled eggs. Genius!

    Leftovers? I’m owed it, and if I see you abscond with as much as a turkey wing, I will run you down and tackle you in my front lawn.

tackle

In Summary, I hope you all had a blessed and wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, full of amazing food, tantalizing desserts, family, friends and joy. Ours was peaceful and quiet, just the big guy and me, and right now I’m looking forward to a turkey and stuffing sandwich. As well as a massage and foot rub and lots of chocolate. Which I won’t get, but I’ll settle for the sandwich.

 

Halloween Confessions

I was born to a clever woman. My mother was crafty and creative. Which unfortunately skipped a generation in me. Every Halloween Mom dragged out the old Singer, and set up to create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

Unfortunately, I was a child of the 50s and 60s. Whilst now I appreciate the detail work of her authentic Hungarian gypsy costume (complete with bangles hanging off the skirt and vest), what I really, truly wanted was “normal.” Being not so much, I felt that a costume like “everyone else had” would help to nudge me towards a bit of normalcy. I mean, really, I didn’t want to be a circus rider, I wanted to be a princess. With a plastic mask. And with the prepackaged, cheaply sewn, tacky material came a rhinestone encrusted tiara. Sigh. Halloween Perfection!

vintage-halloween-384042218307148816

Mind you, I’m the child who was disappointed when my parents were buying their first house, and they didn’t choose a home with a rock roof. The height of modern design in my book. AND – if you added a rock garden, I’d be in 60s heaven …

rock roof

Basically, what I’m saying is that, as a child, I had zero taste. With the exception of wanting to be what everyone else in our white bread neighborhoods deemed to be “normal.”

Fast forward to adulthood. My sisters and my mother embraced the whole Halloween thing. As adults. They’d dress up, drive around town in full regalia. For me, I hated dressing up. I hated adult Halloween. I worked in a creative field (advertising) and every year the agency would have a costume  and pumpkin carving contest. People would go all out. And costumes were “required” to show spirit. Our department (print advertising) was especially competitive. As such, they hated me on Halloween. I’d show up in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Where’s your costume?” they’d ask. “I have it on. I’m Susan On The Weekends.” It didn’t fly.

When I married my first husband, I bought tickets for us to go to a Renaissance Faire. He was so excited, and asked “are we going to dress up?”

Huh?

“No, um, I don’t think so. We going to the faire, not participating in it.” Undeterred, he dragged out a jester’s costume with tights. Tights? My new husband liked to wear tights? OMG what fresh hell had I landed myself in? I told him “you can wear the tights, but you have to walk 10 paces behind me and never reveal that you know me.” He left the tights at home.

The following year he stated that we had to go to the company Halloween party. The company he worked for was NBC. So we HAD to dress up. Out came his tights, and I stared sullenly at my closet, picking a big blousy top, pirate style, that was popular in the 80s. Put on some pants, wore a scarf on my head, and stood by the chips and onion dip for most of the night,

When I had children at home, Halloween was spent taking my kids to houses with the greater chances of having Baby Ruths, Butterfingers and 3 Musketeers bars. My kids? They got the Sweet Tarts.

Back then, the parents stood on the sidewalks while the kids walked up to the houses and rang  the doorbells. The “clever and creative” parents carried bota bags. Nowadays it’s a whole event. If you don’t, as an adult, dress up as the living dead, complete with makeup created to look as if your skin was dripping off your skull, you were an epic fail. Parents with children would have a whole theme going. If you had a storm trooper, as a father you best be chewbaca, and as a Mom you’d best coil your hair in true Princess Leia fashion. It’s all about the theme, baby …

costume

So I thank the heavens that Brad is just not into donning a fantasy persona every year on the 31st. We have the best of both worlds. We live in the country, in the farmlands of Washington State. We have one neighbor with children. Which means we buy one bag of candy. Give as much to Little Bodie and Baby Carson as they want, then we get to eat the rest, wearing our best “Brad on the Weekend” and “Susan On Her Way To Bed” costumes. And not sweat over how creative and clever we can be.

IMAG1176

But, wouldn’t you know it … here in the Washington farmland lives another Creative Mom. I’m having sweats and flashbacks. And desperately looking through ebay for a plastic princess mask for next year.