I thought the worst thing my mother-in-law ever did was sneak a turkey leg into her purse on Thanksgiving. This year, she walked into my house in stilettos, walked out with my entire Thanksgiving dinner, and somehow still managed to blame me for what happened next. I am the kind of person who waits for Thanksgiving like kids wait for Christmas.
Some people get excited for summer or their birthdays. I get excited for turkey and mashed potatoes. Every year, the Friday before Thanksgiving, I pull out my grandmother’s recipe cards.
They’re yellowed and bent and stained with grease, and her handwriting leans a little to the right. Just seeing them makes my chest feel warm. I buy real butter.
None of the cheap stuff. I roast garlic for my mashed potatoes until the whole house smells like an Italian restaurant. I brine the turkey for twenty-four hours like I’m trying to impress the Food Network judges.
I bake pies the night before so they set just right. Thanksgiving is my joy. My connection to my grandma.
My comfort. My MIL, Elaine? To her, Thanksgiving is a photo op.
She loves designer heels. Salon blowouts. Filters.
Whatever new boyfriend she’s dating for the season. She never cooked a full meal in her life unless you count microwaving Lean Cuisines. For the last few years, she’s had this cute little habit of “dropping by” before dinner and leaving with my food.
The first time, she took a tray of stuffing. “Sweetheart, you made so much,” she’d said, already wrapping it in foil. “You won’t even miss it.”
The next year, it was a whole pumpkin pie.
“The girls at book club will just die over this,” she’d chirped, already halfway to the door. Last year, she slipped a turkey leg into her purse. “One little turkey leg,” she’d said.
“You won’t even notice.”
Eric, my husband, would get mad for about five minutes, then say, “It’s just food, babe, let it go. She’s just like that.”
So I let it go. But I never forgot.
This year, I decided my Thanksgiving was going to be perfect. I started on Monday. Monday was pie crusts and pumpkin puree.
Flour on my shirt, flour in my hair. My grandma’s sunflower apron tied around my waist. Tuesday was pies, casseroles, sweet potato mash.
I played 90s music and sang into a whisk. My daughter Lily danced around me while my son Max pretended to be “too cool” but still stole spoonfuls of filling. Wednesday was chopping, slicing, brining, marinating.
I scrubbed out a cooler in the bathtub just to fit the turkey and brine. The turkey looked like it was taking a spa day. By Thursday morning, I could’ve fallen over from exhaustion, but the house smelled like heaven.
Butter. Garlic. Herbs.
Roasting turkey. The turkey was in the oven at 8 a.m. sharp.
I mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and heavy cream. I whisked gravy until my wrist hurt. By 4 p.m., everything was done.
The table looked like something from a HomeGoods commercial. White tablecloth. Cloth napkins.
The good plates. Little place cards with everyone’s names that Lily drew with crayons and tiny turkeys. I just stood there, looking at it all, and felt that deep, warm satisfaction you get when your hard work actually looks like you imagined.
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