It all started after I got married. My husband and I went to his family’s house for Thanksgiving for the first time, and I had to go have myself a little cry in the bathroom. It wasn’t a bad Thanksgiving — my in-laws are perfectly lovely — but it wasn’t the Thanksgiving I was used to. The dishes weren’t the same, the flavor profiles weren’t what I was expecting, and I was bummed. And so I decided, from here on out, whether we were traveling or not, I was going to be the one who cooked.
Fortunately, my family has acquiesced to my demands, probably because none of them are just itching to cook an elaborate meal for a large number of people. It’s possible they’ve just tricked me into doing all this work and thinking it was my idea, but no matter. I’m looking forward to every single dish being exactly what I want it to be, and to kick my family out of my house after a few hours so I can enjoy a tryptophan-induced nap in front of the television. This is, in my mind, the best of all worlds.
The best piece of advice I can give to any control freak who insists on cooking their entire Thanksgiving dinner is to start as early as possible. About a month in advance, I check in with my relatives and ask them what they want to bring, usually simple stuff like ice or the chocolate layer dessert that we all like, and inform them of what I’ll be cooking. I do outsource a couple of things to my family and the professionals — my mom brings a ham, and I order dessert from a nearby bakery. During that week, I spend a lot of time thinking about the “run of show,” or what order I’ll cook everything in. All this information goes into a Google doc so I don’t forget to make the green beans or the gravy.
The weekend before the holiday is totally dedicated to Thanksgiving prep. I make an enormous batch of the double chicken stock that’s an essential ingredient in my great-grandmother’s iconic cornbread dressing. I simmer cranberry sauce on the stove, and make a batch of yeast rolls to tuck away in the freezer. I also sit down and make a very long list of groceries, broken out by item type. I usually have my shopping done by the Monday before the holiday, if only to avoid the hordes of last-minute shoppers and the terrifying potential that those crispy French’s fried onions will be sold out. And finally, I clean out my refrigerator to make room for the onslaught of casseroles and pies that will soon fill it.
I always take off work the day before Thanksgiving, because I’m going to be cooking all day long. I scrub my kitchen clean the night before, then wake up early for a full day of prep. Casseroles are assembled and stored in the refrigerator for baking first-thing on Thursday morning. I inject a turkey breast full of Cajun-spiced butter and cover it in salt, leaving it to dry-brine overnight. I peel and mash a billion potatoes before whipping them with cream and butter, then store the goodness in quart deli containers. At the end of this day I am exhausted and starving, but it’s always worth it.
When the day finally arrives, it’s always smooth sailing. I put my casseroles and turkey breast into the oven, turn on some good music, and wait for my apartment to fill with the smells of roasting turkey and cornbread dressing, and try to remember that this little moment of bliss is what I’ve been working so hard for. There’s always a little last-minute prep to do, like stirring together the gravy or defrosting the cranberry sauce, but those tasks are almost meditative when you’re debating on whether or not to fight with your family about politics at the dinner table.
