Thanksgiving is a Time to Revel in Domesticity, Why Not?
Where do I belong? In the kitchen or on the computer?
I love Thanksgiving. I love the excuse to get out my saucepans and baking dishes and my whisk and hand mixer. I love going to the grocery store and piling up the cart with $100 (now more like $150+) worth of groceries, including whipping cream, pounds of butter, yams, pecans, greens, and so forth. I love polishing the silver, ironing the damask napkins, and laying out the lovely tablecloth with my grandmother’s initials brocaded on it. I love shopping expeditions to purchase additional wine glasses because we’ve broken so many during the past year, and we need a full 12 for this year’s guests.
I love sitting down with cookbooks or cruising the internet to read and compare recipes for how to roast a turkey and how to prepare Brussels sprouts, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed sweet potatoes, and, of course, gravy. Not to mention the really difficult choice: what pie will I bake this year — pecan, pumpkin, apple, or all three?
I love Thanksgiving right up to its final moments after the meal, when my husband and I clear the table, hand-wash the silver, and try to fit all the china plates and glasses in the dishwasher.
For days before the holiday, I revel in domesticity. I pretend I really am a homebody. That I can just forget all this career stuff. I was never meant to do more than spend my time in the kitchen — preparing delicious foods for the ones I love — that’s my ultimate role in life.
Over time, I’ve discovered that I’m no Betty Crocker or Julia Child. But sometimes, I forget. Sometimes I get so excited by a recipe or feel so confident rolling out pie dough or spend so much time preparing a particular dish that I’m absolutely sure will wow my guests, that I think my place is in the kitchen rather than the office. I start to think I ought to spend my time with cookie cutters and wooden spoons and the Cuisinart instead of pecking on the keyboard of my computer.
But then something always happens. I inevitably burn something — could be the rolls or the Brussels sprouts. One year, I was in such a hurry that a knife flew out of my hand and landed upright, stuck in my slipper. No blood that time. Then there was the time I hand-pitted several pounds of cherries for two pies and accidentally put in several tablespoons of baking powder as a thickening agent instead of corn starch.
In other words, I almost always goof up somehow. Or if I don’t goof up and think I’m truly a magnificent cook…then whatever I’m cooking doesn’t taste as fabulously as I’d anticipated. I can read the lack of enthusiasm on the faces of my family or my dinner guests and from the polite comments they make about the meal. Ho-hum.
That’s when I know I don’t truly belong in the kitchen. It’s a little disappointing because who doesn’t want to be a superb chef (and God bless those who are)? But nowadays, I know where I do belong — in my office on my computer, shaping a story or play or essay. I’m a far more skilled writer than a cook. Of course, writing can also be incredibly frustrating and difficult. Yet, for me, it’s also very rewarding. It’s what I do well.
Still, when Thanksgiving rolls around each year — I’m more than happy to sweep my books and papers off the table, get out the butter, flour, pecans, and sweet potatoes, and start reading cookbooks or cruise through the web in search of the perfect pumpkin pie. After all, Thanksgiving comes just once a year. Hurrah! And, gosh, I’m glad when it’s over. Because the next day, I can go back to my real job!
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