by Jen Scoville
I inherited the holiday gene from my mother. No matter how bohemian my
lifestyle (which ebbs and flows yearly in direct proportion to my paycheck),
the trait surfaces whenever the numbered square on the calendar has something
extraneous printed on it, whenever there’s a seasonal color combination,
whenever candles are lit in groups or in sequence. What starts out innocently
enough as symptomatic planning gives way to full-blown, gleeful entertaining,
rife with rushing and readying and another trip to the store for whole pecans,
not crushed. And don’t forget the cheeseballs this time. The feeling of
selflessness derived from plates of hors d’oeuvres isn’t to be underestimated. But is this shameless f�ting a blessing or a curse? I’ve found that the
need to cater to the holiday gene is driven by a hunger for gratitude that,
like an alcoholic at a juice bar, can never be satisfied. The few hours of
cheer seem to end as soon as they begin; were they worth the mini nervous
breakdowns my mother seemed to suffer every year, her harried movements through
the day-long kitchen ordeal escalating into a trembling fit of rage over a
bubbling pot of giblets, when dad came back with white sugar instead of brown?
It’s a good thing for him she was holding only a turkey baster. I usually
shrugged off these tantrums, even if I suspected my nonchalance about the whole
affair to be partly the cause. I knew from experience she would regain
composure like a pro when the door bell rang.
When we were young, we might not have been grateful enough for my mother’s
treatment of the holidays. At Christmas time, we took for granted a house
swathed in fresh greens adorned with tiny blinking lights, the immense,
shimmering Christmas tree that Dad could never get right on the first try, and
stockings hung by the chimney with care, personalized with our first names
brightly embroidered on the front. But then we tired of fielding comments about
how our house resembled the holiday isle at K-Mart, and we couldn’t clap or
bang anything without the stuffed reindeer on the couch breaking into an
impromptu round of “Jingle Bells.” Since Thanksgiving centers around a meal
whose ingestion takes only a matter of minutes — the stuffed brown bird, the
cool shrimp cocktails, and dishes of scalloped oysters and spinach revisited
turning to piles of bones and dirty plates before you can say “touchdown” — it
was easy to discount the preparation in the light of acid indigestion. Even
the execution, featuring starched linen tablecloths, Wedgwood china, and
dripless candles, seemed effortless. Unless I got roped into ironing that
afternoon. Now that I have an oven of my own (well, a rented one anyway), the
gene is making my disregard crystal clear.
I have three turkey day preparations of my own under my belt. One was in
Mexico where I served lunchmeat and spent an entire day in various markets
trying to find sage for the stuffing. It’s the only one in which I didn’t have
to call my mother long distance a million times during the cooking; I just
peeled off the deli wrapper and made gravy with milk. Though my boyfriend was
appreciative and complimentary considering what I had to work with, the holiday
gene was most satisfied by an unannounced guest from Amsterdam named Remco, who
showed up that day courtesy of a friend of a friend of a friend. I answered the
door with just the right amount of chagrin and sincerity, and his tales of
world travel made perfect dinner conversation. He knew of the Thanksgiving
tradition but had never actually experienced one, and was especially grateful
for a hot meal made from a meat he recognized, even if it was pre-sliced.
My first Texas feast was successful because my mother was visiting and took
most of the planning anxiety upon herself. Perhaps this false sense of security
led to my third and most recent debacle of the 20-guest variety. Last year, our
Thanksgiving dinner (aided by a house-sitting job in roomy luxury with matching
plates and flatware) turned out to be more of a weekend festival of hedonism
and debauchery than a celebration of the generosity imparted by Squanto to
Miles Standish. My six or so good friends were quickly multiplied by visiting
family and a guy named Bruce, whom no one actually knew. More than once I
caught myself barking orders from the kitchen. More than twice I had to be
taken into the bedroom to be lectured about how “I wanted to do this, and I
wouldn’t let anyone help.” But it sure was a blast. I’m afraid now I’ve become
so spastic that perhaps the only thing that will satisfy me in my golden
Thanksgivings will be running a soup kitchen or flying in a group of Haitian
refugees for the day.
Innocent of the knowledge of rented tables and lumpy gravy, of mismatched
centerpieces and of my Uncle Walter’s (rest his soul) special order of a pork
chop every year, which mother diligently prepared and served without complaint
(at least to his face), Thanksgiving was just a resting time, kinda boring,
kinda nice. Now I have to fight the desire to outdo myself, to remember the
real reason we accommodate that extra guest at the table, even if she is your
boyfriend’s ex or your dirty-joke-telling uncle Frank’s mistress and her entire
family? What the heck, we say, pull up another chair… it’s Thanksgiving.
If there is a frosted cookie to be made in a particular shape, all I can do is
take a deep breath in preparation. When the holiday gene rears its ugly head,
there’s not a thing to do but give in. You don’t need mom’s Wedgwood china,
champagne flutes, Jell-O molds, or starched linen napkins. Just throw a blanket
on the floor and invite your friends to bring dessert. What you do need is a
big heart, and if you have an Uncle Walter and a pork chop in the freezer, I
promise you will feel something better than gratitude, even if it is down the
road. But this year, I’m going to someone else’s house and I’m bringing my
visiting family with me. I hope my hosts don’t mind. n
This article appears in November 24 • 1995 and November 24 • 1995 (Cover).