Diaries I Read:
OK, Thanksgiving.
I was determined not to stress. I always hated having Thanksgiving at our house when I was little because my mom always stressed. She�d cook for three days and the house would be a disaster and we�d all have to clean all day long on Thanksgiving Day, and then about 20 minutes before people started showing up, she�d get some boxes out of the garage and just start throwing crap into them to get all the junk out of our house so it would look decent. Then we�d have dinner and she�d fall asleep before all the guests had gone home.
I didn�t want to have a day like that. So I planned ahead. I�d been cleaning little by little for several days before so I wouldn�t be overwhelmed with having to clean the entire house. The night before, I unset the tables, ironed the tablecloths, washed off the dishes, and reset the table. I washed all my dessert plates, cups and saucers, champagne and wine glasses so they were ready to go.
Thanksgiving Day started off with B waking me up to let me know he was going running and that he�d made the stuffing and prepped both turkeys so they were ready to go into the oven. I have to say I was a little miffed at this news because this was my first chance to cook a turkey and he had done it all already. Not that I looked forward to sticking my hand up a dead bird�s butt, but still. I wanted to at least be AWAKE for it. Oh well. He meant well.
Then he informed me that all the grocery stores were closed for the day. Closed. On Thanksgiving. I was stunned. All of this strike business is out of control. I wished he had told me this the night before, because there were still a couple of things we needed � like butter, milk, and cornstarch and Crisco for my peach cobbler. So I had to go to this hoity-toity market where it cost me $37 to buy the aforementioned products (oh, all right, plus a couple more things).
When I got home I decided to make my peach cobbler. Let this be a lesson to all: do not attempt a brand-new dish for the first time on Thanksgiving Day when you are hosting 13 people for dinner at your home. It�s just not a good idea. I started getting all stressed out, and then B came home and got me more stressed out, and I thought the �dough� looked a little powdery but figured the peach juice must soak into it or something, and then 30 minutes later when it was �done,� I realized that I had forgotten to add the milk.
I cried. Yes, I cried on Thanksgiving in my kitchen as I dumped my powdery peach cobbler down the sink. I cried because I had ruined my dish and because B had already prepared the turkeys and the one thing I could contribute to the dinner was now down the drain. I cried because this was my first Thanksgiving and I was the only one who hadn�t cooked anything.
I cried because I am not a grown-up after all.
I really felt sorry for myself for a while. I was just mad and frustrated and, despite all of my planning ahead, I was getting stressed out.
But then everyone started coming over. And everything looked really beautiful. And everyone said that it looked beautiful. And I drank champagne.
The dinner was perfect. We had a ton of food, and all of it was good. I ate more than I should. We enjoyed good conversation and good dessert and good coffee. Everyone helped clean up and told me I was a wonderful hostess.
But they didn�t fool me. I still couldn�t have done it without my mom, who reminded me just in time that we still hadn�t prepared the mashed potatoes. I couldn�t have done it without my mom�s best friend, the mom of my best friend, who knew just how much flour to add to the gravy and how to heat it just right and stir all the lumps out. I couldn�t have done it without the extra salt and pepper shakers my mom brought over. I still needed the real grown-ups around.
But when all is said and done, I think I have to say that I�m sort of glad, in a way, that I�m not a grown-up yet. And I�m thankful that I don�t have to be.
Working at home - Wednesday, Nov. 17, 2004
Toronto - Tuesday, Nov. 16, 2004
On the way to Toronto... - Tuesday, Nov. 09, 2004
A Good Day - Monday, Nov. 08, 2004
Another letter - Thursday, Nov. 04, 2004