A couple of Thanksgivings before the accident, Cory and I decided that although we had a huge Thanksgiving dinner to partake of at my parents, we would put on our own. We started out discussing how the best part of Thanksgiving dinner is always the sides, and how fun it would be to make a dinner of sides only- even introducing some yummy newcomers, like roasted asparagus and garlic roasted mashed potatoes.
This whimsical discussion grew until a week later found me hot and sweaty, giggles gone by the wayside of ruined homemade rolls, and not nearly enough oven space for my liking. We had decided to go whole hog since neither of us were huge turkey fans, and had always questioned why one should have to have turkey in an traditional American Thanksgiving feast in the first place.
We brought this debate on hot and heavy at the Sunday dinner before the big holiday. Eric, one of Cory's cousins, latched onto the argument with humor and glee. He declared us the most un-American, un-patriotic eaters of the holiday he had ever personally known, and shook his head sadly. "How you gonna diss the symbol of our people?"
Cory and I grinned widely, arguing earnestly that America was a melting pot of many cultures- could we not break a variety of bread (and foul) while we said our thanks?
What had began as a Sides Only feast of epic proportions slowly grew to include: a succulent roast chicken (gasp), a kettle of sizzling sherry soaked shrimp, a pot roast complete with baby red skinned potatoes, and glazed carrots, and even medium rare steaks covered with sautéed mushrooms swimming in Manhattan sauce. Basically, Cory and I sat down and made a ridiculously large menu of every dish we hoped was served in heaven. Having never hosted a large holiday meal before, I did not realize that oven space determines the scope of your menu. I merely smiled at our ambition, and declared, "We are strong, smart, beautiful independent young women!! Let's do it!"
It took us hours to shop for all the ingredients, with more than one return trip to the store because we'd forgotten some essential ingredient. We made desserts the night before- pumpkin pies and an amazing chocolate pecan pie with a chocolate crust. I was in the kitchen by 8 a.m. the morning of said feast, joined by Cory when she woke up, and we had great fun for a couple of hours until the Emeril's homemade stuffing incident. Was it too much enthusiasm when measuring the unsalted butter? Was the bread too fresh? We may never know. What greeted us coming out of the oven that afternoon was a gloppy, soggy bread pudding type concoction, that boasted a golden puddle of melted butter floating on the top. We looked at it, and then looked at each other. "Maybe, it'll taste better than it looks." Cory said, always the optimistic one.
Aggravated with my cooking ineptitude, I grouched, "We can't eat that, it'll cost us our arteries. Damn you, Emeril! What's with the butter, man? Is that even legal?"
We giggled, and turned our attention to the green bean casserole instead. When it was safely snuggled into the oven to brown, we began the joyous task of seasoning the potatoes, which often required that we eat close to a quarter of the pan as we tasted...such were the sacrifices of our times.
In the end, we made way too much food for fourteen people, let alone four. We had leftovers for a week, and decided to downsize just a bit next time, but declared the feast a success on two counts.
One: no turkey. Two: It was purely us.
We didn't get around to trying it again that next year. Looking back I have to wonder if the crazy need to cram it all into one tasting event wasn't some premonition to wring as much joy out of the holiday as I could while the getting was still good. Someday, all too soon, she would not be at my table, and I wouldn't want to sit at a single one without her.
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