The adventure began on Thanksgiving at 4:30 a.m. I was determined to get a head start on cooking, as a cast of thousands was expected in the annual holiday rotation of musical houses. We’d shamelessly escaped hosting for years. It was our turn on the sacrificial altar. Could’ve been the mini-marshmallows with Sprite I ate for ‘breakfast,’ but my holiday optimism was still intact. All 26 members of the extended, blended family and stepfamily were coming. Or 25 – we never know about Aunt Jimmy (don’t ask), who’d said she was ‘pointing towards coming,’ meaning we’d get ditched if Queen Elizabeth phoned with a last-minute invitation for tea. Our family covers many ethnic groups, religions, and political parties. Some came on the Mayflower, some in steerage before WWI. We are a veritable American melting pot.
I was filled with steely resolve – at our house, everything would be different. There would be no holiday crisis on my watch, no sir. We’d dine in a civilized fashion as a grandfather clock chimed the hour of 5 p.m., just like the Kennedy family undoubtedly did on Cape Cod – the silver polished, the pies steaming, with me radiant in a hostess gown. I wondered what a hostess gown actually was; it sounded alarmingly like something worn by a maitre d’ at a strip club. We’d converse politely on highbrow subjects such as the Euro and the Citibank debacle, with one teeny detour into something seedy like Madonna’s divorce. I could lead a lively discussion on ‘Things We Are Thankful For,’ as suggested in Parents magazine by a naïve writer who obviously has no kids.
Mid-morning, I put the turkey in ahead of schedule. Roasting turkeys is a serious business not to be attempted by the faint of heart, my grandmother said. She believed each bird possesses a unique set of inalienable rights, including the unqualified right to be dried out within an inch of its life. At our house, we had a shiny new double oven, never used. In the month since its purchase, I’d only managed to set its clock after struggling with the manual, only to discover I was reading instructions in Welsh about a dishwasher. Nevertheless, our no-baste organic turkey would roast in the bottom oven in luxurious solitude, while up top would be the pre-cooked ‘turnkey’ dishes I’d carefully instructed guests to bring. Rachel Ray had nothing on me.
By 5 p.m., holiday smells filled the kitchen. We began to gather. I opened the bottom oven. OMG, as my kids say, talking in text. Raw turkey. I’d been so busy daydreaming about the perfect holiday that I never turned on the oven. I took a deep breath, decided this was no crisis, and marched out to face the execution squad. Cocking my head in what I hoped was a winsome manner, I asked, ‘Who wants scrambled eggs?’ The family’s reaction gave new meaning to that old chestnut, ‘a sea of disbelieving faces.’ I soldiered on. In a voice ringing with false holiday cheer: ‘grilled cheese sandwiches?’ Eye-rolling. I’ll bet Jackie Kennedy never had to whip up a dish for 25 on five minutes’ notice.
While the battle raged over the turkey substitute, the Christian and Jewish aunts launched into their annual war over Santa Claus. ‘Christmas isn’t a religious holiday – it’s just an American holiday. Since your kids are Jewish but also American, they need to have Santa.’ This logic left me speechless. Desperately, I suggested playing ‘Things We Are Thankful For.’ Cousin Ted: ‘I’m thankful I can pee standing up.’ OK, that was a start. Uncle Paul: ‘I’m thankful Proposition 8 passed.’ Uh oh – the annual argument over politics and lifestyles began, leaving sisters triumphant and stepsisters stomping off in tears.
My mind drifted during the chaos. I remembered Hanukah and Christmas fell on the same day this year and wondered if I could get away with buying one enormous pre-cooked HoneyBaked Ham for both meals. I wouldn’t even need to figure out the oven. The doorbell rang. Officer Kelly Parrot (yup, Parrot, I can’t make this stuff up) from Animal Control, reporting our dog was loose. It rang again. Aunt Jimmy, hours late, holding a roasted turkey. I was confused. She wasn’t. ‘You said bring turkey, didn’t you?’ she demanded, elbowing past me. No, I’d said bring something ‘turnkey,’ but no matter. The warring parties called a cease-fire while everyone ate.
I decided to give the lonely, dismissed grilled cheese a go. Heaping cranberry sauce on my sandwich, I took a big bite. Solely because I was eating it while surrounded by my endearing, if completely nutsy family, it was delicious. Our family holidays will never resemble a Norman Rockwell painting, but I realize now it doesn’t matter. Being part of a family is an adventure all by itself. Besides, I figure that back on Cape Cod, even the Kennedy family has its problems.
