(Host) Writer and commentator Annie Guyon has a lot of fond Thanksgiving
memories… as well as a few that are downright laughable.
(Guyon)
For a holiday that’s based on happy feelings like gratitude,
Thanksgiving sure seems to produce a lot of anxiety, for a lot of
people. For me, Turkey Day stress has usually come not in the form of
tense family dynamics but more likely the occasional culinary tragedy.
Take
Thanksgiving 1991. I’d just moved into a tiny flat in San Francisco and
had proudly told my family that I would be doing Thanksgiving that
year. That morning, after turning on the Thanksgiving Day parade, I went
in the kitchen to turn on the oven. But being more focused on career
than cooking, in those days, I hadn’t noticed the oven was one of those
compact ones, the kind in dingy motel kitchenettes, and that there was
no way a 20-lb bird was going to fit in it.
I envisioned
cheerfully announcing to everyone, "It’s a vegetarian Thanksgiving this
year!" when I remembered that my boyfriend’s barbecue grill was out back
on the cement square I called a garden. We fired up the coals, put the
turkey in, and everything was going great… til it started raining, hard.
Six hours later, when I lowered a platter bearing what looked like a
soggy meteorite down onto the center of the table, everyone was very
polite. I believe someone even commented on the "interesting Cajun
flavor".
Then there was the first Thanksgiving I spent with my
new in-laws. I’d told them I’d contribute my famous scalloped potatoes.
My husband and I were just about to head over to the gathering, where
I’d be meeting his entire huge family, and I added the finishing touch
to the potatoes – a light dusting of paprika. But as I was lowering the
dish into a portable carrier, I noticed something. Well, a lot of
things… tiny things… moving… on the potatoes. I dropped the dish,
gasping, grabbed the jar of paprika and peered at its contents. It was
churning… with critters. Perhaps that was an omen. He’s my former
husband now.
One of my less traumatizing T-Day memories – well,
less traumatizing for me, anyway – was after a lovely Thanksgiving
dinner at the home of my brother Stewart and his wife Kristy. We were
all watching a movie and Stewart went to get a piece of pie. He didn’t
turn on the kitchen light, and after fumbling around for a few minutes,
came back into the living room with his pie. But upon taking a bite, he
raced back to the kitchen, spewing muffled expletives all the way to the
sink where he guzzled water from the faucet.
What he’d thought
was whipped cream in the leftovers-crammed fridge was in fact another
light-colored, smushy substance, but it wasn’t a dessert topping. It was
gravy. Cold, congealed, turkey-gravy, with which he had copiously
adorned his slice of chocolate cream pie.
Hopefully, this
Thanksgiving won’t turn into a cautionary tale, but at least… my oven’s a
normal size… my paprika is fresh… and, hmm, maybe I’ll get whipped
cream in a can this year.