A four-day weekend, and my ambitious is about what it should be. That, of course, would be non-existent.
I was talking to a buddy yesterday. She’s establishing traditions for the next generation and, therefore, smack dab in the middle of holiday fun. And by fun, I mean the wonderful sensibility of getting together with those folks who are called “family.” The ones who share your collective history, for good, for bad, for worst and for best. Mia familia.
At a bracing 3,000 miles away, I have no such pressure or joy. Blissfully, I must admit, and lazily, which is really the impetus, I don’t have to do anything “traditional,” and I don’t. For the second year running we had Cornish game hens for two in the privacy of our own home. Quietly. Peacefully. No shadows of the past. No pressure to make it the best or the most memorable or ready for a photo spread in the now defunct “Gourmet” magazine.
In all honesty, my family is casual and informal (is that redundant?) enough, that we never really were working toward a Norman Rockwell set piece. Leastways, I can’t imagine how vibrator jokes or discussions of breast enlargements would ever feature in the “Saturday Evening Post.” Still and all, my mother, bless her worried heart, would pull out all the stops and create a feast of epic proportions. As a young kid, we switched around with our cousins’ families, and there was food from appetizer to dessert, stuffed celery with peanut butter for the kids or cream cheese for the grownups, pies, and a fully stocked liquor cabinet for the uncles (‘cuz back in the day, it was the men who had the highballs).
Over the years, as the families started to do their own things, and time marched on, my mother downgraded a bit and cut herself some slack. Beer and wine, without a selection of booze, and appetizers were bowls of chips and maybe some dip. I liked the greater degree of relaxation.
Doubtless I’ve bitched about this before, but holidays were times for me when I was the sous chef. My mother’s aide de camp, I was chopping, refilling chip bowls, basting, fetching beverages, whatever was needed. There’s a good chance I’m exaggerating, as is my wont, but I do remember feeling exhausted and stressed right along with her. To this day, a full house of people privately sends me into paroxysms of hyperventilation and hand-wringing worry.
(Publicly, I brush off my anxiety, and I allow the pendulum swing to full on go in the opposite direction. I’ve been known at my own parties to allow any guest who wants to cook, clean, serve, lay out food, mix drinks, get ice, whatever, to have there way. Somewhere along the line I figured out the people who like to fidget in the kitchen can be put to use. At other people’s homes, I’m happy to return the favor.)
The upshot of my recollection of performance pressure along holiday lines is that M. misses the full court press. One Thanksgiving and one Christmas together in California, we opened our apartment and invited piles of friends. I cooked, I cleaned, I sweated. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t my pinnacle of fun.
Embracing lazy and eschewing tradition. That’s where I shine.
Cooking for two, I do give it a good run, though. The mashed potatoes were off the hook good, if a tad lumpy, because I like the lumps in truth. The birds were moist on the inside, crisp on the out and bulging with excess stuffing. The dinner rolls were fresh from the day, having started their lives that morning in a yeasty homemade dough that I left on the counter, as we picked up last minute provisions from the store.
The gravy was an unfortunate mauve. It had a bit too much tang from the rosé wine that had turned to vinegar in the refrigerator. Not my crowning achievement, but it was edible. Alas. A humbling note.
For his part, M. prepared the house for our guests who arrive today. Friends from back in the old country of Cambridge.
The down note to the whole day broke my Betty Friedan-loving heart. M. went out for a run, and returned to this entire meal being table ready, for him, the man, returning from adventures, to have placed before him. Jeebus, I hate that cliche.
As for my friend, embracing the holidays for her daughter, but feeling the pain of having to do what you’re supposed to do, it causes me to pause. Had I stayed in Cambridge, would I be relaxing this long weekend or sweating?
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