“This is not Thanksgiving.”
Our friend Habs is throwing Thanksgiving this year. It will be a Very Foodie Thanksgiving for these two primary reasons:
1) She lives in Portland, Maine. (Last year’s Foodiest Town in America, I love that such a thing exists.)
2) Habs is pretty much our Martha Stewart. She loves to host. And Thanksgiving, as we all know, is The Hostess Olympics. I might make one of those backstory videos to play before the meal.
We just had a discussion over IM about the big dinner. I am absolutely positive it will be delicious because, like Martha Stewart, Habs will expect nothing less. And she is quite skilled at cooking. The word “souffle” was tossed around, for God’s sake. And she’s making homemade pop tarts, which I’ve been dreaming about for months- ever since I said, “Uh, can we come to Thanksgiving? And can you please make these when we get there?”
All this delicious food and company (my brother is coming!) will be worth the NINETEEN HOUR DRIVE that Liz, Adam and I will endure with the two dogs. 19 hours. Each way. Let that sink in for a second… Yeah, there it is. I’m determined to think of it like sitting on a moving beach for a long day, when I’m not driving. Books, CDs, napping, movies on the laptop. Whatever, it’ll be worth it.
I feel like, as a nation, we need to come together on this once and for all. In fact, I’d like to see a mandate from President Obama (a declaration, if you will) that it’s just not Thanksgiving if the cranberry sauce doesn’t come from a can. It needs to be smooth, there needs to be lines, it needs to be purchased from a major supermarket. Every year, the Food Network and Epicurious gamely trot out the homemade stuff. They show you pans of popping cranberries and orange slices and sieves galore. Beautiful bowls of the stuff. Beautiful bowls that the guests will begrudgingly eat. Cranberry relish. Ugh.
Cranberry sauce was one of the few things we never had from scratch growing up, crowded around the Thanksgiving table. In fact, if 10 year old me had suggested it to my harried mother, maker of beautiful, delicious meals and four large Italian-American children, I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up in the oven next to the stuffing. Who had time to make that along with everything else? Just open the can and shut up. And I wouldn’t have complained anyway because it was sugary sweet, like a sturdier Jell-O, and foreign in its jiggle and just the right consistency all nestled up next to the turkey IS IT THANKSGIVING YET OMG.
Luckily, Habs agrees. For all her fancy food-work (ha. wordplay), she insists we’ll have canned cranberry sauce (smooth, lined) which is good because I wouldn’t want her to face us if she tried anything different. She actually got all feisty about her own hatred of the homemade stuff. God love her.
Entry filed under: Delicious.