Many cultural traditions play out this week. It’s the one occasion when most of us eat turkey. It’s the busiest time of year at airports. It’s when we untangle the colored lights, plug them in, and check whether enough bulbs are burned out to justify buying a whole new string.
And what would Thanksgiving be without the crystal dish holding the traditional jellied cranberry sauce in the shape of a tin can?
It’s these folksy customs which add color and distinctiveness to a celebration. We have a little gem in my family which is repeated every Thanksgiving.
At some point during the preparation of the traditional meal, the cook, usually the host, turns to the guests who have congregated around the food preparation area, and from the heart, with all the feeling a major holiday can inspire, says:
"Ok. That’s it. Get the HELL out of my kitchen."
The first year of this request to vacate was at my sister's house. Her mother-in-law, several guests, and her sister, brothers, and nieces were milling around half prepared dishes of food, adding chaos to an already chaotic situation. The noise level had risen to the point where the two inhabitants of the adjacent living room were unable to hear each other. Without warning, my sister cried the famous words which have so oft been repeated.
Experience had taught those of us related to her by blood to do what she said. Her brothers, sister, and nieces left the kitchen immediately. Unaware of the risk to their health and well being, the less-experienced in-laws and friends laughed and remained huddled around the counters. I was too afraid to peek in and see what happened next.
Kitchens are instinctive gathering places. It probably dates to those chilly Thanksgivings celebrated by early homosapiens who lived in caves. To escape the relentless cold, all the cavepeople and their families and friends gathered around the fire for warmth -the same fire over which the cavehosts cooked the traditional mammoth meat.
In the 21st century, the living room is also warm, but as the guests arrive, they intuitively migrate to the kitchen, chatting happily as the cook/host struggles to create counter space.
Meanwhile, the living room, where chairs are carefully placed to facilitate traffic flow and maximize social interaction, is empty - except for the cats who have discovered that the appetizers on the coffee table have been left unattended.
Does Martha Stewart ever have to deal with this stuff?
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy my guests and I'm happy people like spending this special day in my home. I like talking and catching up as much as anyone.
But it's stressful to coordinate a large dinner which you only prepare once a year, juggling an unnaturally large bird which was frozen just the day before in a floppy disposable foil roasting pan, monitoring several side dishes which need various amounts of heating, checking on rolls which can easily burn, and timing it perfectly so that its ready to eat all at the same time.
About the point where the turkey is done, the corn needs 30 more minutes, and it's time to start the gravy - a delicate and precision operation which could affect the outcome of the whole dinner - I wave my baster in the air and bellow the traditional holiday plea.
Stunned, most people back away, out to what's left of the appetizers.
Fortunately, my momentary lapse in hospitality is forgotten as soon as the steaming gravy flows over the mashed potatoes.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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