I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year. Having done this several times, I've conquered my gastroinflamatory anxiety ridden fears of fixing the perfect bird and serving lumpless mashed potatoes. Until I tuned into the Food Network this morning and let some guy named Alton and his $50 dollar electronic thermometer probe his way under my and Tom Turkey's skin.
The first year I hosted Thanksgiving was the first time my parents came to my newlywed home for a holiday. Dinner came home in a Publix Supermarket box. I paid $30 for the ready to heat and eat turkey, green bean casserole, stuffing, rolls, gravy and pie. It was great. Even the box was well made-to this day I store my wrapping paper in it.
The next year, I must have been taking some great postpartum meds because for Thanksgiving I invited our French friends-those would be the friends born, raised and trained at the top culinary schools in France, who owned a top rated French restaurant and market. This was the same year I decided to make everything myself, right down to the gravy from the pan drippings. After my culinary expert friends declared the meal a success, it gave me the confidence to tackle a turkey no matter what Martha or Julia said. Twine? You want me to keep twine in my kitchen?
So it was without fear that I invited my best friend of 20 years and her family over for Thanksgiving. It's always entertaining when we get together since Melanie has the same name as my daughter and her husband has the same name as my husband. Add to that my kids, spastic dog, their two boys, new puppy, her parents, and my 82 year old father in law traveling up from Florida, a wall oven the size of a shoe box and five mismatched chairs for a table that seats twelve.
Alton had matching chairs, a large oven, and a clean five gallon bucket to soak his bird in brine-which, he said was required because basting was bad. I've never made a brine, my 5 gallon bucket is half full of laundry detergent and I just pulled a muscle retrieving my baster out of the kid's bathtub toys.
Alton poo pooed those plastic pop up, "I'm done!" buttons on the turkey. He used a fancy schmancy electronic thermometer probe. I live for those pop up buttons. Alton mocked my canned cranberry sauce and proceeded to whip up a cranberry "dipping" sauce in individual ramekin bowls.
I own ramekin bowls, but that didn't stop me from clutching my stomach with sweaty palms, whimpering to my husband, "I've always just plopped the bird right in the pan, basted and waited for the button to pop. What do I do now?"
"First, turn off that TV. Next, come with me" he winked. "I'll make you forget about your worries."
We went shopping for chairs.
