(Pilgrim's) Progress Report

Looking back, it’s a blur, a filmy orange streak. Thanksgiving Day 2012 is. I thought I was ready, that this would be the year I’d achieve my goal. I didn’t want much, just to get everything on the table at its appropriate temperature. I was on track too, until they arrived, the invited guests. Then everything went SHABOING, like one of those trickster cans of peanuts you open and out shoots a cloth-covered spring, wild with potential energy.

            The problem wasn’t that the guests were in the house. The problem was that they were in the kitchen. I’d arranged all kinds of awesome appetizers elsewhere to keep people out of the kitchen, away from me.

            My brother was the first invader of my domain. “Whatcha doing?” he said.

            I kept chopping. “Before I forget, I meant to tell you last night on the phone, we can take Mom home afterward,” I told him. “If you all wanna go Black Fridaying.”

            He peeked over my shoulder as I transferred garlic chunks into the green bean pan.

            “I’m over that idea,” he said, “after what happened on the way here.”

            My heart skittered and I stopped stirring, turned to face him. “What happened? Did you all hit a deer?”

            “Close. A big dog.”

            My eyes filled and I placed an oven-mitted hand over my heart. “That’s terrible!”

            He nodded. “Yep. We came around the corner and there it was, in the middle of the road, licking its butt. And then it wasn’t.”

            My son burst through the door, skidded to a stop in his stocking feet. Held out the empty cracker basket.

            “I, I mean we, need more Nut Thins.”

            I glanced at my watch. “The shrimp butter’s been out all of ten minutes and you’ve already polished off a whole box of crackers?”

            He cowered. Took tiny steps backward.

            I glared. “You know what this is, don’t you?” I handed him another box of Nut Thins from the snack cabinet. “It’s gluttony. Pure and simple.”

            He grabbed the box and ran. My brother followed him.

            Moments later my sister-in-law sidled up next to me. “How can I help?”

            I motioned to the pan of rolls. “Put ’em in the toaster oven please. It’s preheated.”

            “You want me to brush ’em with butter? My mom always did.”

            I squinted at my to-do list. “Sure. Whatever.”

            Right after the toaster oven door rattled shut, I felt her breath ruffle my hair.

            “Are you making gravy next? Can I watch? ’CauseI can’t make gravy. Gave up trying years ago.”

            Her confession gave me pause. I gathered in a deep breath. Be in the moment, I told myself, here. Connect. Share.

            I faced her with a grin. “It’s easy,” I said, “if you know the secret. Gravy needs to be shaken, not stirred.”

            She watched intently as I measured equal parts flour and cooking sherry into a jar. I screwed the lid on tight and handed it to her.

            “Shake it like crazy.”
            As she shook, her face glowed. “I remember now!” she said. “My mom used to make gravy like this.”

            “You’ll never have lumps again,” I said as I poured the slurry into the pan juices. I pressed a whisk at her and glanced at the stove clock. Despite all the interruptions, everything was running pretty close to schedule. The dining room table was set. The votives lit. All the side dishes were arranged on the kitchen table. There was only one thing left to do.

            “Men!” I yelled. “Time to carve.”

            My husband and brother bonded while they devastated the turkey, trying and rejecting a variety of knives.

            “I thought you all had an electric knife,” my brother said.

            I surveyed the pile of pale shreds. “Bring yours next year please.”

            When no one was looking, I stuck my pointer finger into the center of the mashed potatoes. They were warm, not hot. I closed my eyes and growled. Dang it! I missed the mark, again.

            Without being told, my sister-in-law removed the rolls from the oven, slid them into the bread basket, and covered them with a clean dishtowel.

            She smiled when she caught me watching her. “I’m really excited about the gravy,” she said.

            Something inside me unfurled. “Me too.”

            “Maybe I can make it next year,” she said.

            All of me clenched, but then I willed all of me to let go. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Pilgrims' Progress

de·sen·si·ti·za·tion

   [dee-sen-si-tuh-zey-shuhn] 

noun

1. The act or process of desensitizing.

2. Physiology, Medicine/Medica. The elimination or reduction of natural 

or acquired reactivity or sensitivity to an external stimulus, as an 

allergen.

3. Psychiatry, a behavior modification technique, used especially in 

treating phobias, in which panic or other undesirable emotional 

response to a given stimulus is reduced or extinguished, especially by repeated exposure to that stimulus.

~~~

            Well, what do you know? It’s six days out from Thanksgiving and I’m not freaking out. Yet. About the ginormous stuffet I must prepare in less than a week. I can tell I’m relaxed this year because it hasn’t even occurred to me to locate my fountain pen in order to calligraphy the menu and after that the multiple it’s-pert-near-Turkey-Day to-do lists. I call that (Pilgrims') progress.

~~~

            For decades, my ma-in-law had the knack of feeding dozens of diners with amazing aplomb. I wonder how long it took her to lose her fear of cooking 30 items for 30 people and exactly how many years did it take her to master the skill of arranging everything on the buffet at the same time at each individual item’s appropriate temperature? I haven’t even begun to grasp that ability and probably won’t until I a) buy a turkey roaster or b) get one of those fancy-schmancy multiple oven stoves. Instead, I vacillate between two mantras:  1) even-if-it’s-slightly-too-cool-it’s-still-yummy and 2) it’s-better-than-eating-out-isn’t-it?

~~~

            Alas, my own mother is eighty years old and she still hasn’t conquered cooking for a boatload of folks. In fact, it still jangles her to prepare open-faced Longhorn Colby sandwiches, Mrs. Grass’s chicken noodle soup, and Crystal Light lemonade for four.

            Even though she does not possess high-level hostess abilities, I have managed to learn a thing or two from my mom with regards to feeding a crowd. Namely, if something can be made ahead of time, by all means, add it to the menu. To Mom, this means prepare as many items as you can two to three weeks in advance and freeze them. To me, this translates to make or bake as many items as possible two to three days out and Ziplock and/or refrigerate them until needed.

~~~

            Holy cow! We’re inside a week now. I guess it’s time. To make the list and check it twice.

Thanksgiving Dinner 2012

Havarti and Roasted Bell Peppers

(Adventure Girl will hog these for sure.)

Tarantini Tapenade on Toasts

(These bites inevitably yield garlic breath but Sandwich Child claims they are exceedingly worth it! Especially if there are no handsome,

available young men present.)

Shrimp Butter on Crackers

(Boy Child would weep if I didn’t make this family favorite.)

Spiced Pecans

(I find these alarmingly addicting. In fact, they may not make it to the buffet line. I might just hide them in the kitchen built-in alongside the

Pretzel-Cheddar Combos and bite-sized Reese Cups.)

Herb Roasted Turkey

(From Bon Appetit’s 1994 November issue. Why change perfection?)

Bon Appetit’s Mushroom Stuffing

(I did change perfection. Amped up the traditional flavor with the addition of celery, roasted chestnuts and scads of sage.)

Thyme-Scented Browned Butter Green Beans

(I love green beans either bright green and crisp or grey- green and cooked to death with ham bits and a whole onion. These are the former.)

Super Buttery and Garlicky Smashed Potatoes

(With regards to smashed potatoes, there is no such thing as too much butter.)

Sherry Shitake Turkey Gravy

(Bon Appetit 1994 strikes again. Note to self: Mince the mushrooms super tiny

so Boy Child can’t find them.)

Sister-in-Law’s Superb Secret Recipe Orange-Scented Sweet Potatoes

(Sometimes she even lets us keep the leftovers!)

Mom W’s Corn Pudding

(I requested this dish last year to dissuade my mother from bringing lime-Jello-with-cottage-cheese-salad. As if it wasn’t scary enough, Mom insists on serving it atop a bed of Iceberg lettuce with a dollop of Miracle Whip. I used to furtively distribute air-sick bags to my kids whenever she brought this item.)

Cranberries Jezebel

(To my amazement, I'm the only one who cares for this delicacy. The secret ingredient is horseradish. Oops!)

Mom T’s Bread

(Every year in my tummy of tummies, I pray Mom T will bring her famous potato rolls, but anymore she just shows up with sliced Italian bread in a waxed bag. Know why? ‘Cause at 84, she’s totally over cooking for the masses.)

Black Bottom Pumpkin Pie

(This is the only new item on the menu. The recipe is from Southern Living so I expect it to be to-drool-for.)

Pecan Crescent Cookies

(Know why these delicately delicious, boomerang-shaped treats crumble on your tongue? Because the recipe calls for two, count ’em two, sticks of butter.)

Cappuccino, Coffee, or Milk

(I suggest the former to ward off the effects of turkey tryptophan.)

~~~

          I have good news. I just took my blood pressure and checked my pulse. Neither is elevated whatsoever. Maybe I have indeed desensitized my Turkey Day Phobia. Thank you, Jesus! Now if only I could do something about my gephyrophobia; you know, bridge phobia.

~~~

(I'm curious and/or nosy. What's on your menu for Thanksgiving 2012?)

(Desensitization definition found at www.dictionary.com)

Time with Ann

I must slow time. Or I will lose it. This a woman with twice my children tells me. And a three letter name to my five.

            “What?” I say. “I don’t just pray, ‘Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom?’”

            “Well,” she says, “that and  . . . “  She pats the grass beside her. Leans back against the tree’s trunk. I lower myself. Pluck a violet. Twirl it.

            She watches the clouds, not me, as she speaks. “To slow time, you must love it. Appreciate it. Notice it. Examine your ankles and imagine minutes swirling all around. You stand firm yet they continue on. And on.”

            The key she says is thanks. And the giving of it. Over and over. All the blessings flow. They are given. Consider that. No randomness here. Only love. And generosity. A father extends an open palm, good gift revealed. A child grasps fingers around. Tight. The papa waits. For a corner of a mouth lifted. A word whispered. An enthusiastic hug maybe. The moment stretches out. Lingers.

            A thousand times a day. No, a minute. Maybe even a second. Everywhere. All over creation. In every life. Known and not. Presents proffered. Presence.

            If you acknowledge the giving, another offering appears. Many actually. Joy, not mere happiness. Awareness. A shimmering of the moment. A pause. You hear and feel your respiration. Record the realization on your heart or perhaps on paper. Resume breathing and discover another thing a blink later.

            Beauty (and bounty) is all around. Immanent. Constant. The living of life, the occurrence of another breath even, is gorgeous. Replete with what ifs. All the more lovely with gratitude. Magnified.

            Ann rises. Tucks her hair behind her ears. I roll my fingers as she moves away. Watch hers. Middle finger joins pointer. Then the ring finger. And pinky. Other hand . . .

*In Search of Excellence*

I stood and faced the ten people gathered around our dining room table. Held up my pointer finger.

            “Will you excuse me a minute please?”

            I bolted upstairs and buried my head in a laundry basket.  And screamed.  When I lifted my head, there was my husband’s pant leg.

            “Something wrong?”

            I glanced up from my crumple.

            “It’s not perfect.”

            He shrugged.  “It doesn’t have to be.  It’s excellent.  That’s enough.”

Last year my Thanksgiving hoohah was a bit of a fiasco.  I decided to be cool and brine my bird.  Nowhere in the directions did Martha Stewart say it would take the turkey three times longer to roast due to its forty-eight hour soak in salt water.

            Thankfully, all the guests were polite about the extremely delayed entrance of the main course.  We actually started out fine.  The wassail was perfect, all simmery and cinnamony in the Crockpot I’d wrapped with fall foliage paper.  It made the house smell like it had one foot in November, the other in December.

            The appetizer buffet was stunning.  I had to smack the kids’ hands with a wooden spoon to keep them from spoiling their appetite with shrimp butter on toasted baguette slices.  My ma-in-law and I vied for the biggest glutton title with the Bon Appetit spiced pecans.  The roasted bell pepper and havarti slices on fancy crackers disappeared in five minutes, thanks to dear husband.

When the oven timer buzzed, I clapped to get everyone’s attention.

            “And now for the main event,” I said.  “Give me a few minutes to get the turkey out of the oven, and we’ll get this feast started for real.”

            My husband hoisted the steaming Tom Turkey out of the oven and onto my Granny’s cream ironstone platter while I got the side dishes squared away.  Nutty green beans go in this bowl.  Garlic mashed potatoes will live in there.  These two trivets will hold my sister-in-law’s best-ever-she-won’t-give-me-the-dang-recipe sweet potatoes.  And I’ll fill our wedding anniversary bowl with my modified Gourmet magazine stuffing recipe. 

            I balanced on tiptoe to peek over my husband’s shoulder as he sliced into the bird’s breast.  I squealed. He jumped.  The carving knife clattered on the stove top. 

            I waved my arms frantically.  “Stop!” I said.  “The juices aren’t running clear!  The turkey package said the juices can’t be pink or cloudy.”

            My husband looked from me to the bird.  I pressed potholders into his hands.

            “Quick!  Put him back in the oven.”

            I increased the heat twenty five degrees and used my Nan’s giant wooden spoon to shove the roasting pan all the way back and left.  I crammed the side dishes onto the racks, hoping to keep them warm too.  I stood, smoothed the front of my cute aqua and lime Anthropologie apron, and headed into the dining room.  With a basket of cheddar pecan biscuits in one hand and a crystal bowl of salted Amish butter in the other.

            “Everyone get a biscuit and butter.  It’ll tide you over ‘til turkey time.”

My husband checked the bird thirty minutes later.  He stood in the dining room doorway and shook his head ever so slightly.  I choked on my biscuit bite.  Wadded my pilgrim and Indian print napkin and threw it at my empty plate. 

            “Here.  Let me take a look.”

            My mother-in-law followed me into the kitchen.  She touched me lightly on my shoulder.

            “Why don’t we start with the side dishes?” she said.  “While the turkey finishes up.  It’ll be fine.”

            I sighed. And sniffed.  “Okay.”

            She removed everything from the oven but the turkey. Arranged the bowls on the kitchen table.  I placed a little calligraphied placard in front of each serving dish.  The guests filed in, loaded their plates, and returned to the dining room. 

            Before we dug in, my oldest brother prayed.  "Lord, we thank you for this bountiful array of food.  Bless it to our bodies, and please, comfort my sister in her time of distress."  

A half hour later my husband inspected the turkey again.  Then once more after twenty minutes. 

            “Think I’ll wait an hour before I look again,” he whispered to me before he sat down.

            I took a swig of white wine.  “You know what?  Just leave it in there ‘til it’s black for all I care.”

            My mother pointed her fork at me.  “Actually, this is good for my hiatal hernia,” she said.  “Small amounts of food throughout the day are much easier to digest than large meals.”

            I tried to smile.  “Thanks, Mom.”

           

When we were done with our stuffing and veggies, I stacked my plate on my husband’s and stood.       

            “Forget about the turkey,” I said.  “I’ll give everybody some to take home.  Who’s ready for dessert?  There’s Praline Pumpkin Pie or Frozen Caramel Pumpkin Torte.  Both with homemade hazelnut whipped cream.”

            I flipped the toggle on the coffee maker and cut five pieces of each dessert.  Dolloped them with whipped cream.

            My husband set a  cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of me.  I started to take a drink, but stopped.  I inhaled.  Wrinkled my nose.

            “What’s in it?  It smells different.”

            He grinned.  “A shot of Bailey’s,” he said.  “I thought you might need it.”

            I felt my nostrils flare and my eyes start to burn.  He patted my back.

            “There, there. Think excellence, not perfection.”

            I turned to face him, my hands on my hips.       

            “This won’t happen next year.”

            He cringed.  “We eating out?

            I snorted.  “Heck no,” I said.  “I’m gonna cook the dang turkey the day before.”

In Search of Excellence

I stood up and faced the ten people gathered around our dining room table.

“Will you excuse me a minute please?”

I ran upstairs and stuck my head in a laundry basket.  And screamed.  When I raised my head, I saw my husband’s pant leg.

“Something wrong?”

 I looked up from my crumple on the floor.

“It’s not perfect.”

He shrugged.  “It doesn’t have to be.  It’s excellent.  That’s enough.”

Last year my Thanksgiving hoohah was a bit of a fiasco.  I decided to be cool and brine my bird.  Nowhere in the directions did Martha Stewart say it would take the turkey three times longer to cook due to its 48 hour soak in salt water.

         

Thankfully, all the guests were polite about the very delayed entrance of the main course.  We actually started out fine.  The wassail was perfect, all simmery and cinnamony in the crockpot I’d wrapped with fall foliage paper. It made the house smell like it had one foot in November, the other in December.

         

The appetizer buffet was stunning.  I had to smack the kids’ hands with a wooden spoon to keep ‘em from spoiling their appetite with shrimp butter on toasted baguette slices.  My ma-in-law and I vied for the biggest glutton title with the Bon Appetit spiced pecans.  My husband single handedly polished off the roasted bell pepper and havarti slices on fancy crackers. 

When I heard the oven timer buzz, I clapped to get everyone’s attention.

         

 “And now, for the main event,” I said.  “Give me a few minutes to get the turkey out of the oven, and we’ll get this feast started for real.”

        

My husband hoisted the big Tom Turkey out of the oven and onto my Granny’s cream ironstone platter while I got the side dishes squared away.  Nutty green beans go in this bowl.  Garlic mashed potatoes go in there.  My sister-in-law’s best-ever-she-won’t-give-me-the-recipe sweet potatoes stay in the baking dish she brought 'em in.  My own stuffing concoction goes in our wedding anniversary bowl.   Did I miss anything?

         

I peeked over my husband’s shoulder as he sliced into the bird breast.  He jumped when I squealed.  The carving knife clattered on the stove top. 

         

I waved my arms.  “Stop!” I said.  “The juices aren’t running clear!  The package said the juices have to be clear.  Else people'll die of salmonella.”

        

My husband looked from me to the turkey.  I pushed potholders at him.

        

“Quick!  Put him back in the oven.”

       

I increased the heat 25 degrees and slid the roasting pan all the way back and left.  I crammed the side dishes onto the racks, hoping to keep them warm too.  I flipped my hair back and smoothed the front of my cute aqua and lime Anthropologie apron.  I headed into the dining room--a basket of warm cheddar pecan biscuits in one hand, a crystal bowl of soft, salted, Amish butter in the other.

  

"Everyone get a biscuit and butter.  It’ll tide you over ‘til turkey time.”

My husband checked the bird thirty minutes later.  He stood in the dining room doorway and shook his head ever so slightly.  I choked on my biscuit bite.  I wadded my pilgrim and Indian print napkin and dropped it on my empty plate. 

     

“Here.  Let me take a look.”

My mother-in-law followed me into the kitchen.  She touched me lightly on my shoulder.

        

“Why don’t we start with the side dishes?” she said.  “While the turkey finishes up.  It’ll be fine.”

      

I stuck out my lower lip and sighed.  “Okay.”

         

We took everything out of the oven and arranged the bowls on the kitchen table.  I put a little calligraphied placard in front of each serving dish.  The guests filed in, loaded their plates, and returned to the dining room. 

My oldest brother prayed.  "Lord, we thank you for this bountiful array of food.  Bless it to our bodies, and please, comfort my sister in her time of distress."  

         

Thirty minutes later my husband checked the turkey.  Twenty minutes later he inspected it again.  

He whispered to me as he sat down.  "Think I'll wait an hour before I look again."

I took a swig of white wine.  “You know what?  Just leave it in there ‘til it’s black for all I care.”

     

My mother pointed her fork at me.  “Actually, this is good for my hiatal hernia,” she said.  “Small amounts of food throughout the day are much easier to digest than large meals.”

      

I tried to smile.  “Thanks, Mom.”

         

When we were done with our stuffing and veggies, I stacked my plate, our son's, and my husband’s and stood. 

“Forget about the turkey,” I said.  “I’ll give everybody some to take home.  Who’s ready for dessert?  There’s Praline Pumpkin Pie or Frozen Caramel Pumpkin Torte.  Both with homemade hazelnut whipped cream.”

      

I started the coffee and cut five pieces of each dessert.  Plopped a dollop of whipped cream on each one.  My husband set a coffee cup on the kitchen table in front of me.  I started to take a drink, but stopped.  I sniffed.  Wrinkled my nose.

     

“What’s in it?  It smells different.”

    

He grinned.  “Shot of Bailey’s,” he said.  “Figured you might need it.”

        

I felt my nostrils flare and my eyes start to burn.  He patted my back.

  

“There, there.  Think excellence, not perfection.”

I turned to face him, hands on my hips.  "This won’t happen next year.”

    

He cringed.  “We eating out?

       

I snorted.  “Heck no!  I’m gonna cook the dang turkey the day before.”