Gobble, Gobble

My father does a mean turkey. 

When he retired years ago before returning to the workforce selling houses, he took on a new hobby of cooking.  He took his new job very seriously.  The man watched food tv non-stop, became proficent on the internet searching recipes and the weekly trip to the grocery store was a pilgramage.  When my future kids become young adults, they will be talking about how nothing can beat grandpa's cooking.

My mom, who began the cullinary adventures of the household, thought my father's new obsession was a mixed bag.  Yes, how wonderful it was to have him helping out, but dominating?  This was the woman who piloted recipes for Junior League cookbooks and thought hosting 4 course dinners for Dad's business associates was fun.  Not to rain on his parade, she watched my father "improve" on staples of the household like beef stew and then solicit applauding audiences for his ego.  I tell you, she has a firm sense of self worth.

Thanksgiving has always been THE highlight of my father's year.  He spends weeks planning for the holiday and literally has it down to a science.  There are specific twists he incorporates into his feast.  For instance, the cranberries have a dab of horseradish in them (amazing, let me tell you), and my maternal grandfather's turkey is now brined, smoked, and stuffed to golden perfection.  Not once can I remember there being dry meat.  My mother has incorporated Ginny's gravy science into lump free, sometimes giblet free (family joke), perfectly seasoned sauce. 

Thanksgiving is the holiday my father looks forward to sharing with his siblings.  The tables are formally set and it seems everyone looks forward to the event.  Everyone brings something.  One aunt has replicated my grandmother's sweet potatoes (which is hard to do as she was notorious for leaving out ingredients when giving you recipes), another always brings pies, and there is always a relish tray and rolls.  I brought the rolls last year and they turned out TERRIBLE.  (J and I were in the middle of fighting while I was making them.  It was not a pretty holiday as I then sat in the kitchen complaining to Ginny and my aunts while he was off with his clan.  Bad, bad news.)

I'm almost ashamed to say that this is my very first Thanksgiving away from home in my 31 years of life.   I'm attempting to figure out how to create a new ritual in my marriage 1700 miles away from family.  J and I thought it would be good to have Thanksgiving with some of his residency friends with whom we are particularly close. 

I ordered a free range organic bird from Wild Oats (J obliged me on this one as although he is not a butterball guy, tyson should work just fine).  I figured this was step one in trying to replicate Dad's piece de resistance and even my brother said, "Of course you're going to do Dad's turkey because its the best, right?"  (However, J has been doing internet searches on other ways to prepare poultry.)  I also began to collect things like gords (round two after Edgar ate the first batch) for decorations.  One problem:  his friends are either on call or working night float Turkey day while he actually has 4 days off in a row. 

Another doctor's wife suggested that we combine efforts and do one together.  Before I knew it she had planned the event with me as co-host for all orphans of the 100+ person program.  This is not turning out to be the intimate gathering we had planned on nor will my 14 pound bird feed the lot of us.  Last Friday night we went out with the festive couple and try to clarify the expectations around the event.  I somehow lost this conversation and ended the night with her programming my cell phone number into her phone so we can divide up the dishes and plan.  I'm still in denial about this.

After some talk, J and I have decided to host our original version of the holiday only on Friday while bringing some sides to Thursday's extravaganza.  However, we have yet to talk to those for Friday's soiree. 

While I have envisioned a quaint candlelit table with our wedding linens and perfect turkey, what I'm realistically expecting is a dried out bird that is three hours late.  It will take years for me to live up to my parent's portrayal of the holiday and hopefully by then we'll be back in Salt Lake at their table.