Growing up, Thanksgiving was one of two major productions in our household. My mother cooked for up to 25 people for both Thanksgiving and Passover, and she did it virtually by herself. I was in charge of things like setting the table, peeling eggs, and separating vegetables into containers so that people could make their own salad (God forbid someone dislike mushrooms, and thus be deterred from the entire salad). We always knew we were getting away with murder, because while we were in the other room playing or watching TV, my mother would yell from the kitchen how we were the only two kids not helping. But it was okay, she added, as long as we understood that we'd better say thank you, and not complain when dinner was running a little bit late.
As we got older, we did start pitching in more, and not just with my Sapta's famous Passover chocolate cake (licking the spoon was well worth the work), but I still hadn't learned how to do anything. Now, at this point, my mother tried. She even wrote out the recipe for roast chicken, which was the basis for all of our Friday night dinners. I still have that piece of paper, I just haven't done anything with it yet.
And then about five years ago, Sal and I decided that we would escape the hell of Thanksgiving travel and create our own tradition of celebrating with friends in New York. This is where karma was supposed to kick me in the ass, but, lo and behold, I married a very capable man. We found a citrus turkey recipe (I highly recommend it) from Giada DeLaurentis, and Sal's tendency toward specificity came in handy as he basted the sucker every 15 minutes with results that were tender and delicious. Our friends came over, and we made all the sides together, thus resulting in delicious food at a party in which I was the host, and once again, got away with murder. We did it again the next year, and then went to other friends Thanksgivings for a few years, in which we brought my famous brussel sprouts, because it is the one thing I can do very well (thank you, Mom, I did listen to this one).
Now, amid Thanksgivings, we've had several dinner parties where my dear friend Rich came over to make his amazing, and truly famous (no pressure, Rich) baked ziti, so while I hosted, he cooked. And man, that was good stuff. So while I love to host, my abilities had yet to be challenged. Then yesterday came around, and karma came a hoppin'. Now, I still had secret weapon Sal, so the turkey was fine, so while I was helping with that (a few scary moments, but I think that goes with the territory), I had said that, on my own, I would make the stuffing and, of course, my brussel sprouts. Our friends were bringing the yams, the cranberry sauce and the mashed potatoes. Thank God. I went online and found what was said to be a 15 minute recipe. I started it at 4pm, guests not expected until 5pm, figuring I had plenty of time to keep dancing to the music and joking with Sal while I got on my way (and he scrubbed the bathroom clean). At 5:30, we were still toasting bread, while I was burning the pecans. And my friends got to witness the truth of my capabilities, and that is that I can make a lot of jokes while I'm messing up in the kitchen.
This is already too long a story, so I'll end it by saying that at 6:45 everything was done. I had over re-heated the yams with marshmallows, though they remained tremendously yummy, burnt the brussel sprouts though they were still a hit (just had to pick out some of the darker pieces), and found that the hour and thirty minute recipe for stuffing was delicious.
And the store bought pie was fabulous. Sour cream apple pie from the Little Pie Company will never fail.
I hope my mother will be proud.
No comments:
Post a Comment