Thanksgiving 2015

Vegetables Aren't Food. Vegetables Are What Food Eats.

When it comes to holidays, we end up with quite a crowd at home. Family, friends, friends of family, family of friends, coworkers—I wouldn't be surprised if a group of random strangers joined us and nobody noticed. (It may have already happened, for all I know.)

Some of the kids (kids!) from the store go home for holiday meals, some avoid it like the plague and sometimes they just band together and eat at so-and-so's house. So-and-so was frequently Valerie—she likes to cook almost as much as Ducky and I do, and loves leftovers as much as we do. (Since Geoff and Randy frequently join the crowd at her place, the leftovers are often pretty slim.)

After helping her move into her new house in the spring, I fully expected her to really host Thanksgiving that year but it fell apart. Technically, it was the dining room ceiling that fell apart, but she sure wasn't in the mood to nuke mac and cheese let alone cook for Thanksgiving. I let her know she was always welcome at our house, and the half a dozen-plus friends (and coworkers) were expected to come along as well. They all gratefully accepted.

After early first servings, we were sprawled around the living room in various stages of food coma and sharing stories of holidays past. Mis-measured ingredients, ovens not turned on, someone who read the calendar wrong and cooked the whole dinner a week early (better than late, I guess), "interesting" guests and so forth. Lots of "don't make me laugh!" pleas that were ignored.

Mom, of course, had regaled the group with tale of my first "all by myself" Thanksgiving; Ray defended me, saying that was the best stuffing I'd ever made. I 'fessed up and admitted it was just Pepperidge Farm with some onion and celery added in. He still said it was one of my best.

"How about Beverly?" This was from one of Valerie's cohorts, a friend with years of association between them. From the look in her eye, she had heard the tale before—or maybe witnessed it firsthand.

Valerie rolled her eyes. "That was my first 'by myself' Thanksgiving."

"So how bad was it? And who is Beverly?" I prompted.

"Beverly was—at the time—my brother's girlfriend. They did get married, so she's my sister-in-law and, hey, I don't have to live with her. Thank heavens. She's… a vegetarian," she said with great drama.

We have several of those in the room, only one of whom bristled a little.

"No problem, I figured. I can cook vegetables and people even eat them. But every day Jamie is reminding me, 'Don't forget, Bev is a vegetarian.' 'Remember, Bev is a vegetarian.' 'Are you doing something for Bev? She's—' 'A vegetarian!' I almost screamed. 'I got the memo!' Mom had to turn away real fast so he didn't catch the look on her face."

All of the parents in the room—mine included—were snorting and chuckling. They had all dealt with questionable significant others, I'm sure.

"So I had a big salad, for one thing. And I made creamed cauliflower. Green beans almandine. Peas with those itty bitty pearl onions. Baked squash. Pasta with broccoli florets. Seriously, I had ten veggie dishes on the table. So what does she eat? Salad. Mashed potatoes. And the peas. Everything else? 'Oh, I don't really care for broccoli… cauliflower… green beans… spinach…'"

"Basically a vegetarian… who doesn't eat vegetables?" This was from Luke, one of Charlie's uncles and a brand new vegetarian. (I got the memo, too. Charlie only mentioned it once.) He was the one who had looked a little snarky a minute ago, but had settled down as Val continued her tale.

"Oh, it gets better. I'm sitting there grinding my teeth—this added another couple of hours to my cooking, thankyouverymuch. Everyone else is taking some of the veggie dishes but, dang it, I cooked all that stuff under threat of doom and destruction. So I'm clearing the table, putting away the leftovers…" Her look was clearly "this is the part that really got my goat." "And there's Beverly, picking off the crisped skin and eating it. 'This was always my favorite part when I was a kid!' I almost dislocated my jaw when my mouth fell open.

"I managed to get the bowl of dressing back to the kitchen without dropping it—or throwing it—and Mom and Grandma were in there wrapping up leftovers and giving each other a look. 'I remember the first time people became interested in vegetarianism, back in the Twenties,' Grandma whispered. 'I don't remember turkey skin being on the list!'

"I was still po'd about all that work down the drain. Oh, I knew we would eat it all, it was just—" Val pursed her lips and snorted. "You know! So Dad is making small talk with dingbat and hacking the turkey into manageable pieces for the fridge and I snarled to Mom, 'I am NOT doing this again for Christmas!' She held up her hands in the 'no, I totally understand' way and Grandma just kind of cocked her head. 'How about pizza?'"

We all laughed and Ducky was the one to ask: "So… did you order pizza for Christmas?" (He was probably remembering the Christmas two years ago when Foot, Pye and the dogs joined forces to steal the turkey and the roast and we ended up eating pizza for Christmas.)

"You bet I did. Including a vegetarian pizza for Herself and a plain cheese one." We all looked at her expectantly. "She took the plain pepperoni one, peeled the pepperoni off her slices and gave the meat to Jamie. It 'tasted better than the plain cheese' and the vegetarian pizza had—"

"Vegetables she didn't like?" Luke laughed.

Val tipped her head and saluted him with her wineglass. "Got it in one. And you weren't even there!"

I have two sisters-in-law. One has already appeared here (she of the 'that's a caffeine milkshake' fame). This is The Other One. And, yes… I ordered pizza for Christmas. I cooked vegetables we would never normally have, just for her. I was nuclear explosion mad. And the title, again, is just one from my collection of buttons and stickers. I love turkey and prime rib and chicken—but I can and will mow you down in the line at the local salad bar, too!