My partner is, without a doubt, the most distracted driver I’ve ever encountered. Seriously, he can spot a rare bird or a yard sale from a mile away while completely ignoring the road. I’m usually in the passenger seat, channeling my inner drill sergeant, yelling at him to “Focus on the road! Watch the yellow line! Don’t hit that mailbox!”
Before I became a wife and mom, I had no interest in cooking whatsoever. My culinary expertise was limited to take-out menus. So, of course, it was only a matter of time before I found myself in the kitchen, with my partner armed with his own version of the Nagging Husband Voice, urging me to “Pay Attention!”
Last Thanksgiving, I insisted that we celebrate at home, envisioning the perfect Rockwell-inspired holiday. I wanted to wake up at dawn to prepare the turkey, don an apron and pearls, and channel my inner culinary diva like a character from a magazine. I dreamed of sipping wine while baking breads and pies, sharing motherly wisdom on the secret to making the perfect candied yams with anyone who wandered into my kitchen.
Despite my partner’s skepticism, I was convinced it would be a breeze with Martha Stewart and Pinterest on my side. I gathered some back issues of Martha Stewart’s Thanksgiving editions, searched for recipes on Pinterest, and opened a bottle of wine to kick off the festivities. By the end of the night (and the bottle), I had crafted a menu that was ambitious, if not entirely practical.
The day before Thanksgiving came, and after spending $389.00, I was ready to conquer the kitchen. The only issue? I had no clue what I was doing. What would Martha do in my shoes? Pour a glass of wine and start with the easy stuff, right?
I opened a can of cranberry sauce and dumped it into a fancy bowl. Not a bad start—until my partner popped in.
“Did you start the pies yet? Where’s the turkey?”
“Whoa there! Look! I made cranberry sauce!”
“It’s the day before Thanksgiving; the cranberry sauce can wait,” he replied.
“Trust me! I have this under control. Now, scram, okay?”
He rolled his eyes and left the kitchen.
Fast forward six hours: I had burned two pies and accidentally swapped salt for sugar in a batch of pumpkin bread—a blunder we wouldn’t discover until the big dinner.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and my dream quickly morphed into a chaotic challenge.
- 4:30 AM: Alarm blares. Hit snooze repeatedly.
- 8:45 AM: Realize how late it is and panic.
- 8:53 AM: Start coffee, turn on Pinterest, flip through Martha’s magazine.
- 9:15 AM: What in the world? The turkey is still frozen!
- 9:42 AM: Fill the tub with lukewarm water, toss in the turkey, pour a glass of wine, and pray for a miracle.
- 9:47 AM: “You forgot to thaw the bird, didn’t you? I told you, but did you listen?”
“Shut up and drink your coffee,” I snapped.
“Honey, let me help. You’re in over your head.”
“Just pass me that knife, please.”
By 10:31 AM, the turkey was floating in the bathtub, and I deemed it thawed enough. I wrapped it in a towel and moved it to the kitchen.
Pinterest suggested making stuffing separately, so I buttered the turkey like it was sunscreen. Seasoned it, and shoved it into the oven.
“Did you check if the bird is fully thawed?” he asked.
“Of course I did! Stop pestering me!”
“Do you want me to make the stuffing and gravy?”
“I just need that recipe, please.”
“Wait! You have to cook the sausage before mixing it into the stuffing! Are you trying to kill us?”
I was determined to prove him wrong.
At noon, my partner asked, “What’s for lunch?”
“Uh…?”
“Never mind.”
I realized I hadn’t even turned on the oven. “I FORGOT TO TURN THE OVEN ON!”
After some more wine and finally firing up the oven, I checked the turkey again, only to find it was still frozen inside. I thought no one would notice if I just cooked it at a higher temperature. I was wrong.
By 6:57 PM, after ruining the pies, undercooking the bread, and neglecting the rolls and candied yams, dinner was finally served—five hours late. The turkey was burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. I told everyone it was Cajun style. My partner had the decency not to remind me that he had warned me about this.
Next year, we’re having dinner at my in-laws. (Honey, I promise!)
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In summary, Thanksgiving cooking can turn into a hilarious disaster if you don’t heed warnings and stick to your strengths. Next time, it might be best to let the professionals handle the turkey.