Thursday, November 26, 2009

Canned Black Olives + Vicodin = Higher Than Normal Threat of Divorce. That's a standard formula, right?

I have a tradition of cooking an entire turkey dinner with all the trimmings every year on Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve. I do this because my house has been deemed too small by the Thanksgiving SS so I have lost eligibility to host the Big Ass Family Thanksgiving Dinner.

Thanksgiving bylaws are complicated. What can I say?

Consequently, we get no house full of Thanksgiving smell, no leftover turkey (no turkey sandwiches or turkey soup!) and no apple pie for breakfast over the weekend.

Eight or nine years ago I made my own damn tradition, thankyouverymuch, wherein I treat my hubby and kids to a scrumptious, gluttonous feast. The day before the real feast. Rendering the actual Thanksgiving Day dinner rather "leftoverish."

Don't you hate when your attempt to solve a problem only begets its own set of problems?

So. To remedy that issue, I vary from the conventionally accepted Strict Menu Of Thanksgiving, thus making Thursday's meal entirely different from my Wednesday meal. Except for the turkey. And the stuffing. And gravy. Cranberry sauce . . .

Also? I am not a fan of what Thanksgiving has become. I loathe pushing a cart through the grocery store late in November and finding that my basket has identical contents to every other basket I pass in the aisles.

  • Sparkling cider? Check.
  • Boxed stuffing? Check.
  • Cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk for pumpkin pie? Check.
  • Ingredients for "The Green Bean Casserole"? Check. Check. Check.
When, in our nation's history, did this banquet become so rigidly codified?

I diverge from the party line. I'm a rebel with my Thanksgiving menu. Gone rogue, if you will : )

While I was preparing our Thanksgiving Eve Thanksgiving Repast, hubby started opening a can of jumbo black olives and asked which dish I wanted to serve them in.

"I'm not serving olives." I answered, matter of factly.

"Why?" he was perplexed.

"Because they don't really go with the food I'm serving tonight."

"But we always have olives and pickles on the table at Thanksgiving," he counters. "Why do you have to be all 'fancy'?" And by 'fancy' he means, "This is different from the way my mom does things--therefore I don't like it."

"Not serving canned jumbo black olives qualifies as 'fancy' now?" I ask with not at all disguised contempt.

He continues opening his can of olives, puts them in a pretty bowl and sets them on the table. I seem to have lost that round. Bastard.

Later, when nibbling from the hors d'oeuvre dish, he quips that he needs to go check his Pilgrim Manual to make sure that pear/onion/cheese strudel was served in 1621. He's completely lost sight of my intention. I've lost another round. Bastard.

Oh, at this point I should probably tell you that I have a non life threatening, temporary medical condition and, since it's a holiday weekend and all, my physician has put me on constant and strong doses of Vicodin just to get me by. So my head's a little fuzzy. And I can't string two thoughts together, much less make a complex recipe or finish a conversation without looking around and asking, "What?" as though I've just entered the room and don't know what's going on . . .

My original idea was, instead of serving squash at the meal, to pay homage to the gourd family by making roasted pumpkin and garlic hummus. I put all the ingredients into the blender and it was all a yummy orange puree speckled with seasonings. Thank you, prescription narcotics, I got a little confused and poured my lovely blended concoction into a pie crust . . . I lost that round too and it wasn't even my husband's fault.

Later, while singing Comcast karaoke with the kids, I was 100% committed to belting out a song I love, Kryptonite, when I realized I really didn't know the lyrics and was singing completely different words. In a different key. With different timing. And they were all chuckling at me . . . "Take another pill, honey," my sweet mister mocked. He wins another round! Damn, that guy is good! El bastardo!

And when did this whole day become a competition anyway? Actually, let's face it, any day that is about family and celebration where a husband and a wife have different ideas about things, and where alcohol and/or medication are involved, naturally becomes a competition.

Can't wait til Christmas!

4 comments:

vuboq said...

I bet your pumpkin humus pie was the Star of the Dessert Table!

Jen on the Edge said...

My husband has an aunt who cooks her entire Thanksgiving dinner and then puts everything in Tupperware in her fridge and goes to Bob Evans for her Thanksgiving dinner. I am not kidding.

I am a big fan of shaking up the same old/same old and trying new things. My ideal Thanksgiving dinner would be chicken, roasted carrots and sweet potatoes, corn pudding, peas, and maybe mashed potatoes. Pumpkin cheesecake instead of pumpkin pie. And no cranberries of any kind.

Whitenoise said...

Will you still call him Superman?
;-)

country mouse said...

LOL, Vuboq : ) My hummus pie was salvaged (not baked!) and actually was quite good--not too pumpkiny. Very yummy with pilgrim approved radishes and cucumbers : )

Oh, Jen, that reminds me--my mom has a friend who's sis-in-law makes a whole Thanksgiving meal and throws away anything they don't eat right then because she doesn't do leftovers. Doesn't do lefotvers? What's the point???? And I'm with you on the "maybe mashed potatoes" I do rice : )

No, Whitenoise, not if he's going to be all pushy about his olives!