There are many meanings assigned to and derived from this unique time of year - religious beliefs, family relationships, community responsibilities. And a host of special activities spawned by less lofty concerns - out-decorating the neighbors, having your favorite college team make it to the right bowl game, navigating the year-end retail frenzy. You get the picture.
We each have a general sense of what this time of year means to us. Giving, receiving, socializing, and we can't forget eating. We know we look forward to it with certain expectations and are usually quite content to see it all end. But our awareness of the events that make up this whirlwind journey and how they affect us during the ride seems less clear. At least to me. It's from this perspective that I thought it would be fun to share. Just what is it that brings us from euphoric anticipation Thanksgiving Eve to an equally euphoric relief the day after New Year's?
In this first post we'll start at the beginning with what I will call the launching pad - Thanksgiving. Yes, I know. Christmas decorations are now sometimes appearing in stores just after Labor Day. But I refuse to expand the holiday season past its already demanding five or six weeks. Call me old fashioned or just a cranky, aging baby boomer.
Like many other bait-and-switch situations, "The Holidays" initially suck you in with an offer of food. Not just food, but the finest dinner of the year where it's alright culturally to gorge yourself to the point of immobility. Indeed, you're considered a wimp and a buzz killer if you don't have seconds of each of the six or seven dishes offered plus at least two types of dessert. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's rewind a few days and see how this trap is cleverly laid.
It starts the morning after Halloween. We're a little hungry upon rising still feeling the effects of last night's sugar high crash. Then, as we're packing away our costumes and cleaning up the candy wrappers, we stumble across the pumpkin on the front porch. We think "hmm, maybe we could eat this." The plot is hatched. While we seldom actually eat the pumpkin, the taste buds have been set on a path that can only end at one place. That would be the traditional Thanksgiving Day whipped-cream-adorned pumpkin pie.
And to keep you thinking about it, the lead up to the big day provides plenty of reminders. There's pumpkin flavored shakes at your favorite fast food spot, pumpkin spice coffee creamers, pumpkin bread side dishes, and the cruelest temptation of all - pumpkin pancakes down at the local breakfast eatery. Talk about a conspiracy.
In truth, succumbing to this conspiracy isn't that painful in the beginning. We cruise through early November sampling the bait here and there, gradually getting in the mood, and even anticipating the day. I mean, what's not to like? Parade floats, football, feasting and socializing, right? Can't wait! Then about two weeks out, reality sets in. You remember that you're hosting.
By now, you're hosed. While you were musing about the benefits of the big day, your spouse along with your kids and in-laws have been making plans. Lots of plans. And many involve you doing things that are not on your bucket list (like dusting or polishing almost everything you own) or things that you are only marginally skilled at (like a knife fight with a large, angry bird). But as I said, you're hosed.
So you smile, put your toys away (so you won't have to dust them), and in my case report for cleaning and de-cluttering duty. In my younger (read more limber) days all I needed to run the Thanksgiving prep chore gauntlet was a little attitude. However since achieving senior status, I've learned to rely more on chemical aids, and not just those provided by certain distilleries. Fortunately, there's something for everything that might ail you. Low energy, stiff joints, sore muscles, fuzzy vision- no problem. Take a little of this, a little of that, and you're back wielding your Pledge and Glass Plus with aplomb.
In the interest of full disclosure, l must admit to one silver lining in my Thanksgiving chore regime. My Bride handles just about everything involving the food, both shopping and cooking. I tried to cook once. I quickly learned that it involved sharp instruments and small power appliances. Also following well-established recipes. None of these things are, shall we say, in my wheelhouse. Inept is too weak a term to describe my performance, but this is a family blog. Suffice it to say, my kitchen privileges have since been restricted to the microwave and the dishwasher. Whenever possible with another adult in the house.
I had a slightly better go at the unholy task of pre-Thanksgiving shopping, but due to predictable hormonal handicaps I again delivered less than satisfactory performance. It's not good when you come back two hours late with only half the items on your list and most of the coupons you were sent with still in your pocket (marketing is complicated - who knew). And my unfamiliarity with the "take a number" system at the meat and bakery counters caused me (and others) all sorts of grief. The bottom line is that I was informed that aside from emergency situations my supermarket services would no longer be needed. I am still allowed to buy beer.
Of course, there are several other non-food related Thanksgiving prep tasks assigned to me in addition to my cleaning duties. These will vary depending on the number of guests we are expecting, the weather, and/or the chef's mood. But they almost always involve carrying heavy items up and down stairs or bundling up and heading outdoors to service the grounds.
There are the everyday, ergonomically-friendly chairs to swap out for the straight-back dining chairs (it would be a breach of tradition to be overly comfortable at a formal dinner). Dragging the 40 pound 16" x 78" table leaf up the stairs from the furnace room, wrestling it into place, and then worrying the now elongated table into proper position. Also, there are a few other chairs and side tables to shuffle to new locations around the house to make room for the expanded dining area. And when needed, clearing the drive and sidewalk of any inconsiderate snow-ice-sleet that could threaten the safe arrival of our guests.
Having navigated this prelude of demanding tasks, one should be able to limp off to bed on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing that all obstacles had been vanquished and that the fun would begin with the rising sun. "In your dreams" I think is the common expression. I have found that despite the most thorough preparations, Thanksgiving Day can present its own challenges. Let's take it from the top.
The day begins innocently enough. The double-dose of Ibuprofen you took at bedtime has done its work. You're able to get out of bed with only the usual creaks and winces. As you descend the stairs for that first cup of coffee, you are embraced by the enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen (as the turkey master has been up for hours and has the bird well on its way).
Through the morning you sit by your lovely gas log fire, watch parades, complete your morning day planner activity, and contemplate the dinner. By noon you have managed to shave and get dressed in your finest casual garb (in our family the coat and tie tradition for holiday dinners went out long ago). Guests are due any minute, just in time to catch the kickoff of what undoubtedly will be another exciting victory for our beloved Lions. Right.
As guests arrive, everyone settles in. The game begins. We enjoy light appetizers and libations as we watch the Lions commit their first turnover. All the while qualified individuals are prepping various food dishes and setting the table with fine china and silver (for most of these family heirlooms, this is only their second day out of the cabinet all year - there was the cleaning thing earlier in the week).
Things are going smoothly. Then, as the game enters the fourth quarter, the moment I've been dreading occurs. From the kitchen I hear, "Honey, the turkey's done." That means the bird has been removed from the oven and cooled enough to be prepared for the table. Oh boy.
I rise from my cushy recliner and report to the arena. I am about to face two tests of my manhood. The first is the ritual of lifting the 23 pound turkey from its roasting pan on the stove onto the carving board a short distance away on the counter. Sounds easy right? If done correctly, it is. But remember my reputation with sharp objects. However, I'm ready. I've rehearsed the whole thing in my sleep for the last few nights, and am confident real life will go a little bit better than the dreams. I pick up the two carving forks that have been laid out for the operation, one in each hand, and approach the bird.
Drawing on my years of experience with this harrowing task, I focus in on the midpoints on each side of this unfortunate victim and insert the forks the full three inch length of the tines. And with only a modicum of hesitation, I gently lift everyone's main course gently up over the lip of the roaster and, balancing the prize deftly, move it the 18 inches required to the board. It's done. I've survived the most exciting 2.5 seconds in dining. And avoided the shame and ridicule that accompanies a sloppy, grease-splashing, counter-soiling botched turkey transfer. I'm safe. Ah, but only for the moment.
Impressed with my performance, my Bride excuses me for a few moments so I can gather myself for the task that remains. After a few peaceful moments, and a visit to the cocktail bar, I re-approach my opponent.
Now, it would seem that I would have the advantage, right? The bird has been beheaded, stuffed and roasted for hours at hundreds of degrees. It has also been laid out on a spiked piece of wood and further immobilized with the steel, spiked locking arm bolted to the carving board. Of its own accord it cannot move. It's harmless. Or so it would appear.
I on the other hand am unfettered, free to move about in my fancy shirt and party shoes. I'm also now armed with a 12" carving knife and not one but two large forks (one to hold my prey as I parry and another to remove my booty to a serving tray). As a final precaution, I've steeled my nerves with a wee bit of liquid courage. So what's to worry about?
I go about my business methodically, cutting away the drumsticks and wings, trimming the dark meat away from the bone. I move on to the breast, lifting away neatly sliced portions of white meat. The process continues until about half the bird's offerings have been pared away and fashioned into a handsome platter of poultry fit for the exquisite table that has been set.
Yeah. Right. That's my story. But in truth it was all a blur. And the turkey put up quite a fight. What I remember is standing before the turkey hoping not to get any grease on my shoes or anything else for that matter. Then, dazzled by the bright lights over the counter, I began. I have a vague notion of flailing with my instruments in all directions, grasping and pulling at elusive pieces of avian anatomy, thrusting my blade over and over into the slippery innards of my resistant prey, and as able dropping the product of my efforts onto the serving tray. It was sort of dream like.
Eventually, I sensed the fog lifting. My weary arms slowly relaxed, and my head cleared. I found myself standing in the same place physically, but obviously time had passed. In front of me was what was left of the bird. It wasn't pretty. On the tray next to the carving board was a generous pile of turkey meat. I then realized the battle was over. I had defeated my stubborn foe and again survived this barbaric ritual without (at least knowingly) embarrassing myself. A faint smile of relief eased onto my face. I looked up and calmly announced that dinner was ready. After composing myself I joined the others at the table.
From that point on, life was grand. The dinner was delicious, and plentiful. We had a fine crowd of 10. Well, eleven really. But month-old Lena didn't eat that much. Here's a photo of this year's Thanksgiving day gathering.
From left to right are daughter Christine, Nancy's brother Dave, Dave's sons Mathew and Brian, Dave's bride Barbara, son-in-law Mathew, grandson Ian, daughter Cathy holding newborn granddaughter Lena, my bride Nancy and yours truly.
After dinner I faced the final challenge of the day - the dishes. Owing to my lack of food prep contributions, I am always happy to captain the cleanup team. Nancy and Barbara cleared and packaged the leftovers, of which there were many. I overcame my fears of handling fine china (there have been one or two mishaps in the past) and unleashed a flurry of rinsing, stacking, loading, unloading, more rinsing, stacking, loading, etc. It came to the usual two and a half dishwasher loads plus hand washing and drying of certain delicate or over-sized items. It was an admirable display if I do say so myself.
As dinner was served in late afternoon, the afterglow continued on into early evening. Eventually the sated, happy crowd said their goodbyes, gave hugs and departed. It was a rare event having the four adult cousins together for a holiday. A nice reunion for these kids who have spent so much time together in the past at the family cottage in Canada.
With the house quiet and the essential cleanup completed, Nancy and I were left to recover with a nightcap and a nap during a family favorite holiday movie. Daughter Christine stayed on to join us for this closing act.
We finally headed off to bed just before midnight, having enjoyed ourselves immensely. With the long list of prep and day-of tasks long forgotten, buried deep beneath yet another fond family memory. Plus, a refrigerator full of food to graze on through the extended weekend (I think there was a second helping of pumpkin pie late that very night, to get the whole leftover thing started).
Of course, it wouldn't be until the next day that the full realization of what the passing of Thanksgiving and the "launch" of the holiday season really meant. But that brings us to Part 2 of "The Holidays", and my next post.
Till, then.
Grosse Pointe Charles
And to keep you thinking about it, the lead up to the big day provides plenty of reminders. There's pumpkin flavored shakes at your favorite fast food spot, pumpkin spice coffee creamers, pumpkin bread side dishes, and the cruelest temptation of all - pumpkin pancakes down at the local breakfast eatery. Talk about a conspiracy.
In truth, succumbing to this conspiracy isn't that painful in the beginning. We cruise through early November sampling the bait here and there, gradually getting in the mood, and even anticipating the day. I mean, what's not to like? Parade floats, football, feasting and socializing, right? Can't wait! Then about two weeks out, reality sets in. You remember that you're hosting.
By now, you're hosed. While you were musing about the benefits of the big day, your spouse along with your kids and in-laws have been making plans. Lots of plans. And many involve you doing things that are not on your bucket list (like dusting or polishing almost everything you own) or things that you are only marginally skilled at (like a knife fight with a large, angry bird). But as I said, you're hosed.
So you smile, put your toys away (so you won't have to dust them), and in my case report for cleaning and de-cluttering duty. In my younger (read more limber) days all I needed to run the Thanksgiving prep chore gauntlet was a little attitude. However since achieving senior status, I've learned to rely more on chemical aids, and not just those provided by certain distilleries. Fortunately, there's something for everything that might ail you. Low energy, stiff joints, sore muscles, fuzzy vision- no problem. Take a little of this, a little of that, and you're back wielding your Pledge and Glass Plus with aplomb.
In the interest of full disclosure, l must admit to one silver lining in my Thanksgiving chore regime. My Bride handles just about everything involving the food, both shopping and cooking. I tried to cook once. I quickly learned that it involved sharp instruments and small power appliances. Also following well-established recipes. None of these things are, shall we say, in my wheelhouse. Inept is too weak a term to describe my performance, but this is a family blog. Suffice it to say, my kitchen privileges have since been restricted to the microwave and the dishwasher. Whenever possible with another adult in the house.
I had a slightly better go at the unholy task of pre-Thanksgiving shopping, but due to predictable hormonal handicaps I again delivered less than satisfactory performance. It's not good when you come back two hours late with only half the items on your list and most of the coupons you were sent with still in your pocket (marketing is complicated - who knew). And my unfamiliarity with the "take a number" system at the meat and bakery counters caused me (and others) all sorts of grief. The bottom line is that I was informed that aside from emergency situations my supermarket services would no longer be needed. I am still allowed to buy beer.
Of course, there are several other non-food related Thanksgiving prep tasks assigned to me in addition to my cleaning duties. These will vary depending on the number of guests we are expecting, the weather, and/or the chef's mood. But they almost always involve carrying heavy items up and down stairs or bundling up and heading outdoors to service the grounds.
There are the everyday, ergonomically-friendly chairs to swap out for the straight-back dining chairs (it would be a breach of tradition to be overly comfortable at a formal dinner). Dragging the 40 pound 16" x 78" table leaf up the stairs from the furnace room, wrestling it into place, and then worrying the now elongated table into proper position. Also, there are a few other chairs and side tables to shuffle to new locations around the house to make room for the expanded dining area. And when needed, clearing the drive and sidewalk of any inconsiderate snow-ice-sleet that could threaten the safe arrival of our guests.
Having navigated this prelude of demanding tasks, one should be able to limp off to bed on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing that all obstacles had been vanquished and that the fun would begin with the rising sun. "In your dreams" I think is the common expression. I have found that despite the most thorough preparations, Thanksgiving Day can present its own challenges. Let's take it from the top.
The day begins innocently enough. The double-dose of Ibuprofen you took at bedtime has done its work. You're able to get out of bed with only the usual creaks and winces. As you descend the stairs for that first cup of coffee, you are embraced by the enticing aromas wafting from the kitchen (as the turkey master has been up for hours and has the bird well on its way).
Through the morning you sit by your lovely gas log fire, watch parades, complete your morning day planner activity, and contemplate the dinner. By noon you have managed to shave and get dressed in your finest casual garb (in our family the coat and tie tradition for holiday dinners went out long ago). Guests are due any minute, just in time to catch the kickoff of what undoubtedly will be another exciting victory for our beloved Lions. Right.
As guests arrive, everyone settles in. The game begins. We enjoy light appetizers and libations as we watch the Lions commit their first turnover. All the while qualified individuals are prepping various food dishes and setting the table with fine china and silver (for most of these family heirlooms, this is only their second day out of the cabinet all year - there was the cleaning thing earlier in the week).
Things are going smoothly. Then, as the game enters the fourth quarter, the moment I've been dreading occurs. From the kitchen I hear, "Honey, the turkey's done." That means the bird has been removed from the oven and cooled enough to be prepared for the table. Oh boy.
I rise from my cushy recliner and report to the arena. I am about to face two tests of my manhood. The first is the ritual of lifting the 23 pound turkey from its roasting pan on the stove onto the carving board a short distance away on the counter. Sounds easy right? If done correctly, it is. But remember my reputation with sharp objects. However, I'm ready. I've rehearsed the whole thing in my sleep for the last few nights, and am confident real life will go a little bit better than the dreams. I pick up the two carving forks that have been laid out for the operation, one in each hand, and approach the bird.
Drawing on my years of experience with this harrowing task, I focus in on the midpoints on each side of this unfortunate victim and insert the forks the full three inch length of the tines. And with only a modicum of hesitation, I gently lift everyone's main course gently up over the lip of the roaster and, balancing the prize deftly, move it the 18 inches required to the board. It's done. I've survived the most exciting 2.5 seconds in dining. And avoided the shame and ridicule that accompanies a sloppy, grease-splashing, counter-soiling botched turkey transfer. I'm safe. Ah, but only for the moment.
Impressed with my performance, my Bride excuses me for a few moments so I can gather myself for the task that remains. After a few peaceful moments, and a visit to the cocktail bar, I re-approach my opponent.
Now, it would seem that I would have the advantage, right? The bird has been beheaded, stuffed and roasted for hours at hundreds of degrees. It has also been laid out on a spiked piece of wood and further immobilized with the steel, spiked locking arm bolted to the carving board. Of its own accord it cannot move. It's harmless. Or so it would appear.
I on the other hand am unfettered, free to move about in my fancy shirt and party shoes. I'm also now armed with a 12" carving knife and not one but two large forks (one to hold my prey as I parry and another to remove my booty to a serving tray). As a final precaution, I've steeled my nerves with a wee bit of liquid courage. So what's to worry about?
I go about my business methodically, cutting away the drumsticks and wings, trimming the dark meat away from the bone. I move on to the breast, lifting away neatly sliced portions of white meat. The process continues until about half the bird's offerings have been pared away and fashioned into a handsome platter of poultry fit for the exquisite table that has been set.
Yeah. Right. That's my story. But in truth it was all a blur. And the turkey put up quite a fight. What I remember is standing before the turkey hoping not to get any grease on my shoes or anything else for that matter. Then, dazzled by the bright lights over the counter, I began. I have a vague notion of flailing with my instruments in all directions, grasping and pulling at elusive pieces of avian anatomy, thrusting my blade over and over into the slippery innards of my resistant prey, and as able dropping the product of my efforts onto the serving tray. It was sort of dream like.
Eventually, I sensed the fog lifting. My weary arms slowly relaxed, and my head cleared. I found myself standing in the same place physically, but obviously time had passed. In front of me was what was left of the bird. It wasn't pretty. On the tray next to the carving board was a generous pile of turkey meat. I then realized the battle was over. I had defeated my stubborn foe and again survived this barbaric ritual without (at least knowingly) embarrassing myself. A faint smile of relief eased onto my face. I looked up and calmly announced that dinner was ready. After composing myself I joined the others at the table.
From that point on, life was grand. The dinner was delicious, and plentiful. We had a fine crowd of 10. Well, eleven really. But month-old Lena didn't eat that much. Here's a photo of this year's Thanksgiving day gathering.
From left to right are daughter Christine, Nancy's brother Dave, Dave's sons Mathew and Brian, Dave's bride Barbara, son-in-law Mathew, grandson Ian, daughter Cathy holding newborn granddaughter Lena, my bride Nancy and yours truly.
After dinner I faced the final challenge of the day - the dishes. Owing to my lack of food prep contributions, I am always happy to captain the cleanup team. Nancy and Barbara cleared and packaged the leftovers, of which there were many. I overcame my fears of handling fine china (there have been one or two mishaps in the past) and unleashed a flurry of rinsing, stacking, loading, unloading, more rinsing, stacking, loading, etc. It came to the usual two and a half dishwasher loads plus hand washing and drying of certain delicate or over-sized items. It was an admirable display if I do say so myself.
As dinner was served in late afternoon, the afterglow continued on into early evening. Eventually the sated, happy crowd said their goodbyes, gave hugs and departed. It was a rare event having the four adult cousins together for a holiday. A nice reunion for these kids who have spent so much time together in the past at the family cottage in Canada.
With the house quiet and the essential cleanup completed, Nancy and I were left to recover with a nightcap and a nap during a family favorite holiday movie. Daughter Christine stayed on to join us for this closing act.
We finally headed off to bed just before midnight, having enjoyed ourselves immensely. With the long list of prep and day-of tasks long forgotten, buried deep beneath yet another fond family memory. Plus, a refrigerator full of food to graze on through the extended weekend (I think there was a second helping of pumpkin pie late that very night, to get the whole leftover thing started).
Of course, it wouldn't be until the next day that the full realization of what the passing of Thanksgiving and the "launch" of the holiday season really meant. But that brings us to Part 2 of "The Holidays", and my next post.
Till, then.
Grosse Pointe Charles
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