The Unfortunate Hostess
Written by Jen
Blog
Thanksgiving is quickly approaching, however, so I must drink some strong coffee and change my attitude quickly. I listen to other women gush about how they love preparing Thanksgiving dinner for 30 family members and 20 orphans and I wonder what's wrong with my genetic makeup. To clarify, I sort of enjoy the cooking part; it's the people-eating-my-cooking part that causes me anguish. Ok, and that necessary hostessy prep stuff is problematic, too. One year I invited friends over for New Year's Eve, prepared an amazing meal, and forgot to set the table. We didn't even have enough chairs in the house to seat these people. Now perhaps the problem is clear. I'm an anomaly, a curious mix of good intentions coupled with chaotic thinking.
Enter Thanksgiving dinner, where the meal is actually pretty important, as is sitting down together and giving thanks for our blessings. Who in their right mind would want me in charge of this mammoth celebration?
Simply, nobody else is crazy enough to attempt a milk-soy-nut-free pilgrim's feast because collectively my husband and son cannot tolerate most of the foods in the major food groups. I accept this challenge, and all would be well if I were any good at entertaining or if I could at least see some improvement in the process as the years pass.
But no.
I become a crazed lunatic two days before the family arrives, over- or under-cook the turkey and serve half of the meal hot and tasteless and the other half cold and tasteless. Two years ago was particularly memorable because someone graciously provided wine. Thus, I didn't mind when I discovered my nephew licking butter off the serving plate and finger painting what remained on our back door. Hey, who needs butter? Or turkey for that matter?
Honestly, I welcome anyone brave enough to eat here but I think they leave our house most thankful that they've survived. My children beg me not to plan parties. "It's too stressful for you," they say gently, with a slight wince. What they really mean is that their childhood memories are peppered with flashbacks of mom losing it over hair on the bathroom floor or the cake that flopped. My husband mentioned that he might take the day off the day before Thanksgiving. "Are you crazy?" I asked. Adding, "But if you do, please get the kids out of the house." It's safer for everyone that way.
Given my history of leaving carnage in the holiday wake, I am baffled that my mother asked me to host Christmas as well this year. I have, after all, a reputation as the black sheep entertainer of the family. In her heyday, my Mom could throw together a first-class party at a moment's notice. My sister-in-law can paint a room and the furniture in it hours before 40 guests arrive to find sparkling candles and a table full of elegant fare. My brother-in-law is a designer and a gourmet cook. Why would anyone want to celebrate the Lord's birthday at my house?
Ahhh, now I get it! They're giving me another chance, it being Christmas and all. You know, goodwill toward men, etc. Thanksgiving is a warm up. Perhaps this is an act of mercy.
Ok, I'll play along. As my children sigh and plan their escape route, I am beginning the deep breathing exercises that will sustain me through the Thanksgiving meal and the month of December. You're all invited for dinner. Who wants to bring the turkey?