365 Nights Page 10
As a result of less television and more intimacy, I was sleeping better, feeling better, and watching my happy cooking shows at my leisure on my DVR. I couldn’t believe my good fortune: It was as if I had discovered the Holy Grail. Intimacy Every Day — Junky Television + My Favorite Foodies on DVR = Better Sleep and a Happy Spouse. Hurray for me!
Thanksgiving is really a fantastic holiday for us: me as a food lover and Brad the sports fan. I love to entertain. I love it, love it, love it. (Luckily Brad does, too, or does now after ten years of being with me.) The cooking component didn’t always come easy to me, but at least I don’t have to go overboard on decorating my house (see December)—some happy mums for my porch, and turkey dinner napkins, and I’m done. I can focus on researching menus, preparing meals, setting a gorgeous table with the wedding china, and enjoy hanging out with family. Except, of course, when we have to watch sports. The tradition of Detroit and Dallas hosting NFL tilts on Thanksgiving is nearly as old as the holiday itself, according to Brad, who also had to explain to me the meaning of a tilt (which is code for a “really, really exciting game”). His grandmother was the biggest football fan in his family, and when she hosted his Thanksgivings in years past, she would time serving fourteen people turkey and all the fixin’s between games so as not to miss a snap.
But before I lugged out my roasting pans, I had an important commitment I simply couldn’t miss: my son’s last Thanksgiving feast at his preschool. This time next year, my little fellow would be walking the halls of elementary school, riding the bus, and learning to read. If I could only stop time and savor longer this enchanted day, when my boy and his tiny friends were dressed in handmade brown paper bag costumes with paper hats and feathered headbands. Some were Indians and some were Pilgrims, and they were feasting on authentic First Feast fare: chicken nuggets, cornbread, and mac and cheese. I was caught up in a moment so pure and engaging that it nearly overwhelmed me. Children this age are so very kind and generous, and they reminded me that Thanksgiving is about being thankful, of course, but it’s also about being kind and generous.
So I went from being feted by five-year-olds in the church gymnasium to trying to be as generous and kind in hosting Brad’s family, which includes his mom, sister, brother, brother’s wife, and their two kids. Six adults and four kids. I had a Wednesday evening dinner, brunch, and Thanksgiving menu on Thursday and a plan for Friday and Saturday. Easy peasy. I planned out my menu (and not around kickoff ). I had made list after list, and sketched out my week and what I would prepare on Tuesday, Wednesday, and finally, Turkey Day. I shopped the Farmer’s Market, the Fresh Market, and the local supermarket. My grandmother’s cheese ball (which is like a proper noun—my daughter asks: “Are you making Cheese Ball?”) and marinated shrimp as appetizers. Then an oven-roasted turkey, which had been brined overnight in a concoction of honey and water; garlic mashed potatoes with gravy; sausage-pumpkin cornbread stuffing; roasted asparagus; and for dessert—pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap crust for the adults, and Ooey Gooey Pumpkin Bars for the kids.
I also whipped some snacks together and breakfast items: a blue cheese and walnut spread, sour cream coffee cake with pears, and some homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. I also had waiting in the wings a new recipe for turkey soup. (Brad loves turkey soup after Thanksgiving . . . or is it his mother?) Either way, my recipe included fresh spinach and cheese tortellini. And last but not least, made-to-order waffles from my awesome waffle iron like the ones they have at the Hampton Inn breakfast-included breakfast bar.
No stone was left unturned . . . no pantry cabinet left un-stocked. I was on it.
But when Brad and I first got married, I had not yet mastered the art of putting forth a meal for so many all by myself.
For two reasons, really. One, I wasn’t that adept in the kitchen. Yes, it’s true—there are a few people from the South who don’t ever learn how to cook. Two, I never had the need to cook anything—much less all by myself. In hindsight, spending every major holiday previous to getting married at my grandmother’s house with three generations of cooks was a real culinary deficit for me—there was no room, no need, and certainly no opportunity for me to cook. My grandmother, mother, two aunts, and a few older cousins were clucking around that teensy kitchen like a bunch of mother hens tending to casseroles, meats, vegetables, biscuits and breads, and a dizzying array of desserts. Family members were flowing in the screen door with insulated casserole carriers holding even more food. I had not eaten a Thanksgiving meal prepared by someone who didn’t have the name Snow somewhere in their family history until I was thirty years old. (Except for the time my college roommate got married over Thanksgiving weekend and I ate with her family . . . including her great-aunt Zelda, with whom I also shared a room that entire weekend. Again, I just showed up for the meal . . . and helped Aunt Zelda with her zipper a time or two.)
So in the early years of our marriage I wasn’t used to the idea of sharing holidays with someone not related to me by blood and I certainly wasn’t used to the idea of preparing a holiday meal for someone not related to me by blood. So in the early years of our marriage, the planning and execution of a meal simply overwhelmed me. Not to mention having to clean and generally hose down the house before and after the event. And while Brad was handy with a vacuum, he brought nada cooking skills to our beautiful union. In fact, I think the only thing he brought of culinary note might have been a George Foreman grill and a recipe for spaghetti sauce, which included ground beef, canned sauce, and an entire bottle of dried oregano. Yum. We never hosted my family—who were still heading over the river and through the woods.
In those early years when I was responsible for putting a turkey on the table for Brad’s family, I managed to muddle through, including the year that I was pregnant with our son and was so skeeved out by that slimy beige bird that I had to lie down on the couch and shout directions to Brad and his sister on how to stuff the turkey. Back then the stress of it all did not lend itself to me wanting to celebrate the season with Brad between the sheets. I was so exhausted from entertaining his family that I certainly didn’t have the energy or inclination to entertain anything else. If Brad was interested in something other than seconds of turkey and dressing, forget it. Catty, no? If it made some awkward moments between us, I didn’t notice. But I was trying . . . at least in the kitchen. I had acquired an insulated casserole carrier and a deviled egg dish. I was trying new dishes and experimenting with recipes. Brad was happy at the thought of hosting his family (it was our year with his side), and I was learning about organization and prep work and menu planning.
So this year, no worries! Some years of practice, and not being pregnant, meant that I was preparing a delish Thanksgiving Feast and dishing up some daily intimacy with Brad. Now, I’m motoring around the kitchen each day and then each evening motoring down the hall for some good tidings of intimacy with Brad, and then right back into the kitchen to pack up my cooled cookies and check on my setting cheesecake. I was in my Nigella zone—sexy and culinary—no doubt about it.
And I stayed in the zone and on task until about 5 P.M. on Thanksgiving Day. Right after that beautiful meal (if I do brag so myself ) was put forth in our dining room and enjoyed by six grateful adults and four messy children. I took the turkey out a bit early (my brother-in-law and I both swore that meat thermometer registered 180 degrees!) so after much fussing we had to put it back in the oven again. My asparagus was slightly overroasted, but the stuffing was outstanding and the potatoes were nearly pitch perfect (and quite garlicky). And the pièce de résistance—my homemade pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap crust lovingly baked in a water bath. It was scrumptious, so scrumptious in fact that my dear sister-in-law turned to me and said, “This cheesecake is incredible . . . where did you buy it?” I about spewed cheesecake down my twin sweater set. I was so very, very sad that someone would think that my cheesecake, gently whipped with two pounds of cream cheese and so lovingly baked in a bath of steaming water, was store
-bought. My sister-in-law came by this comment honestly. Her family thinks store-bought desserts are great—behold frozen éclairs and Mrs. Smith’s pies. I put it down to misunderstandings between the North and South, and called the day a success.
Later, while folks ooh’ed and aah’ed over my culinary masterpieces and cleared the table, my feet started aching, my head started pounding, and I started to crash. I’d been running on Thanksgiving adrenaline since Monday and I was just going to sit . . . down . . . for . . . one . . . little . . . minute . . . and . . . rest . . . my . . . feet . . . With that, I fell asleep on the couch in a roomful of people scurrying around my kitchen packing up food, washing dishes, soaking pans, and picking the meat off the turkey for the soup and stock . . . God bless my mother-in-law, who always picks the meat off the turkey for the soup and stock no matter whose house she is at for Thanksgiving.
Even with my high social needs and bizarre bursts of culinary energy, there are times when I simply need a break—even if the leftovers aren’t cool yet and I’m snoring shamelessly in the middle of post-dinner chaos. Later, I would hop up and retire to my bedroom—one of the nice things about The Gift was that it could become a regular part of the “Rest and Relaxation Repertoire.” Before, I would have snuck off to take a nap, or read a magazine—preferably alone. It was an opportunity for me to escape for a bit from Brad’s family and from some really bad pinot grigio. I would head upstairs to model my Martyr Crown in front of the mirror—why, yes, it still fit perfectly after a day of cooking, cleaning‚ and slaving for my in-laws. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Brad’s family and they certainly have never, ever insisted that I cook, clean, or slave for them. I was doing what I had seen my grandmother and mother and aunts and cousins do all those years—knock themselves out. Which was why I missed holidays with my family, where I could kick back, relax, and most certainly not knock myself out.
Now that I have committed to a new way to relax and renew, I can make eye contact with Brad (he knows the signals), and we can slip off for a “Doubles Nap.” It’s great—I get to have my husband to myself for a few minutes before I have to lend him back to his “first” family; we both get a breather from a giant meal and we can have a few moments of conversation about who said what to whom at dinner and if so-and-so was drunk or is he always that obnoxious. On occasion, however, I fall asleep on the couch along with the rest of the family who gorged out on turkey and stuffing. And that’s okay, too.
The years we spent at my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, there were too many people and not enough seats, so the luxury of falling asleep in a chair or on a sofa fell to the quick and the few. Some stretched out in front of the giant console (you read that right . . . a giant console) television to watch football. And fifteen minutes later they had joined in, too. It was not unusual for four to six people to be snoozing in that tiny den at any given moment after the Thanksgiving meal. Those of us who were awake didn’t mind stepping around those who were asleep. “Does everyone just fall asleep like that?” Brad would ask. “Sure, it’s the tryptophan, the extra helpings of biscuits, and the four kinds of homemade pie,” I’d reply. “The real question is . . . how in the world do you stay awake?” I’d ask as I hunkered down in the corner with a pillow.
Certainly one of the glorious perks of a Thanksgiving meal is that divinely sated feeling. You are relaxed, a tad overfull, and those lovely turkey chemicals are making you feel nice and mellow . . . wow, an afterglow that feels eerily similar to sex! In a weird way, it is like a culinary dose of intimacy. Instead of sex, simply overeat on carbs and turkey—and voilà! But no, one of the gifts of getting older, after all, is getting wiser—wiser about how to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for twelve, wiser about how to balance work and family, wiser about not trying to do it all, and wiser about how best to connect with a spouse (and believe me, it’s not overeating on turkey together). In the old days, the holidays were all about the status quo for me—not losing weight, for goodness’ sake, but at least trying not to gain. Not always connecting with my spouse, but not completely ignoring him either. Not gaining much on my to-do list, but not losing too much ground either. This Thanksgiving, I was about more than damage control—I hadn’t allowed anything to come between me and my special evenings with my husband and it was really, really good. Food? Well, I hadn’t let anything come between me and a little cheesecake either. But one step at a time . . .
DECEMBER
The Ho Ho Ho Horribly Happy Holiday Season
“Well, honey, you ready for our daily deed?” I asked.
“I guess so—but it’s pretty hard to feel frisky after watching Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town for the umpteenth time and gorging on buttered popcorn,” he said. “Can you give me a minute? I want to admire the tree for a little while and ponder Hermey’s decision to be a dentist.”
And so it goes.
It’s the most wonderful time of year again. A season of peace and goodwill toward man (I’ve found it much easier to feel goodwill toward mankind as a whole rather than goodwill toward the Christmas tree guy who gouged me on the price of a tree and some wimpy garland). A season high on sentimentalism and childhood memories. And a season where things are always just a little . . . bit . . . off.
When your normal to-do list is a mile long, it gets ten times longer during the working holidays. It gets hard to find time to do the regular stuff. You know, laundry, carpool, unloading the dishes, daily trysts. Sometimes I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a snow globe and someone is shaking it to kingdom come. But the biggest part of getting ready for the holidays definitely has to be getting the house just so.
My mother calls it fluffing. “Have you fluffed for the holidays? ” she’ll ask me. She wonders if I’ve decorated, and pulled out my boxes of ornaments, bows, and holiday figurines. I may sound like Scrooge, but I hate decorating my house for Christmas. I hate it, I dread it, and I utterly loathe it. I do want my house to look picture perfect for the holidays and I do want to create some more award-winning memories for my kids and family. But I hate the day we pull out fourteen tubs of Santas, ornaments, stockings, candles, placemats and napkins, books, and so on from the basement to start our fluffing. Because all I can think about is that day a few weeks later when I have to pack it up and put it away—or defluff, if you want to call it that. I hate the pine needles that have scattered everywhere. I abhor the leftovers oozing out of my fridge. I cry at the list of thank-you notes a mile long. Christmas is like a month-long dinner party—with guests that never leave and a hellacious mess. Merry merry.
Brad has made it easier, though, because he is a Christmas Tree Stud. I mean, if there were ever a contest for decorating a tree, he would win by a landslide—so just back away from the tree and no one will get hurt. For example, the man has some serious spatial skills, and searching for the perfect tree each season is much more successful because of him. Me? I’m wandering aimlessly through the maze of trees wondering which one is going to seep sap onto my hardwoods, all the while snapping pictures of the kids, hoping for a semidecent Christmas card photo. Brad is great at unrolling yards and yards of lights, each lovingly wrapped around a paper towel tube, and arranging them perfectly on the tree.
But most important, Brad has a happy heart for decorating a Christmas tree. And I do not. I have a happy and quite nostalgic heart after the tree is decorated and we sit on the couch and gaze lovingly at this festooned tree and proclaim, “Yep, this is the best one yet.” But I don’t really decorate the tree with a happy heart, and not even Christmas music and a hot toddy can help.
Weirdly enough, Brad came to our marriage with barely a stick of furniture, but with boxes and boxes of the most amazing tree accoutrements—garlands of stars, strings of red wooden balls that look like giant cranberries, sweet ornaments. Which is interesting because he nearly married someone who is not Christian. “You know,” I once said, “this whole Christmas tree passion of yours might have been dead in the water if you had married someone who do
esn’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Yeah, would that have been a buzzkill or what?” he replied as he stood on a ladder and carefully placed with great focus and concentration our homemade angel on the top of the tree.
I really do want a picture-perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas, just in my own dysfunctional way. And it’s easy to forget that most family holiday memories are of the dysfunction, not the functional. Functional is not as memorable or compelling; it is not the stuff of family lore. More people remember the year that your uncle Bobby drank too much and mysteriously broke the toilet. That Christmas your cousin Billy came out of the closet. The season that your aunt Millie served raw meat and cold corn soufflé. As much as we try to create perfect holidays, holidays are really the perfect storm for drama.
I had never woken up at my own house on Christmas morning. It was always spent at my grandmother’s house, my cousin’s house, or my aunt and uncle’s house. As a result, I had tremendous faith as a kid; if Santa could find me at a different address every year (which he always managed to do), then all must be right with the world. I discovered Santa’s true identity later than my peers, primarily because I had seen him perform some amazing search-and-find feats. Who wants to give up on that?
My grandmother’s dining room table was always chocablock crowded—too many chairs and not enough room for everybody. Even the sewing bench from the back bedroom and folding chairs from underneath the bed were pulled in to seat my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles. So another table was set in the front of the living room, near the front door. Bordering one side was a love seat that could accommodate two adults or three children, along with a wingback chair, a footstool, and other odd chairs, and that was where older cousins and spouses—about six to eight of us—sat. At the other end of the living room was a third table—a wobbly aluminum one that folded up and slid under a bed in the back bedroom. It, too, was covered with a tablecloth. That was the kids’ table, and that was where I dined every Christmas Eve until I married. I never in all my life had a holiday meal at the “grown-up” table. Someone would have had to die to free up a space at the “grown-up” table, and there are three other cousins ahead of me anyway.