Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays (2 page)

2

PREPARING TO HOST THANKSGIVING DINNER . . . WITH CHILDREN

by Amy Hunter

STEP ONE:
Get all the shopping done before the kids are on Thanksgiving break. Shopping with kids is additional stress that you don't need, and when your shopping list consists of over eighty items, you don't want this to be the time your preschooler “wants to be in charge of the shopping list.” Make sure you have a wingman on speed dial to get you the shit you forgot, because you
will
forget something.

STEP TWO:
Pour yourself a drink. A stiff drink, preferably with alcohol. This is where a sober-driver wingman will come into play when a large bus of nuns breaks down on your street and you have to set the table for six more diners to share your feast with. You can't say no to nuns, even if you wanted to. Nope, nuns will always have a place to eat Thanksgiving dinner. Besides, they bring the good juju.

STEP THREE:
Defrost the turkey. I know, it sounds ridicu
lous, but my family still tells a story from 1971 where my newly married aunt served a frozen turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, and while we want the meal to be memorable, we don't want it to be
that
kind of memory. Think “delicious memory,” not “you're-gonna-spend-more-money-on-therapy memory.”

STEP FOUR:
Prepare everything you can in advance. I've always been a firm believer that food needs to be as farm-to-table fresh as it possibly can be, and that's true . . . if you're in a freaking restaurant. I'm not a professional chef, or a line cook (although my kids do act like this joint is a diner) and once I had mouths to feed that weren't my own, “fresh” took on a whole new definition. If I mix more than three ingredients, it's fresh. So . . . green bean casserole? That bitch can be made the day (or two days) before and reheated right before it's served. Same with pumpkin pie. Besides, my ninety-one-year-old grandma is the only one who eats that anyway. What's a couple extra days when you're ninety-one?

STEP FIVE:
Set the table. My mother-in-law, hubby-to-be, and I shopped forever for the perfect “good china” when we got married, and now . . . you guessed it, we are breaking those bad boys out. Of course, we never registered for place settings for twenty people, but it's not like I'm going to let the kids use the good dishes anyway. Shabby chic is back in! Right? As you unpack, dust, and set up, of course the three-year-old wants to hold the largest and most expensive piece to replace. Attempt to refocus him with a task less daunting, like coloring pictures of pumpkins. Set him up with that someplace far away from you, so there won't be any “See Mom? SEEEEE???? MOM!!!!” while you are working.

STEP SIX:
Dessert. Dessert is the most ridiculous part of Thanksgiving dinner because usually everyone is so damn full and tired, they barely even touch the magnificent sweets, which are the biggest time-suck to a mom chef. This is the reason the wise outsource dessert. Aunt Carol wants to make apple pie? Excellent. Go on with your bad self, Aunt Carol.

STEP SEVEN:
The stuffing. Some people prefer to cook the stuffing in the bird, some prefer it cooked out of the bird. Of course my family is split down the middle as to their preference, so I do both, because God forbid they can make things easy and the last thing I want to listen to for the next five hours is how the stuffing could have been better if I just . . . Nope. No way. I'd rather stick myself in the eye with a pencil.

STEP EIGHT:
Cooking the bird. You finally have a defrosted turkey and it's time to cook it. You have one hand in its carcass and you're pulling out all the innards when the nine-year-old informs you that his little brother has stopped coloring pumpkins and started coloring the wall. Leave the turkey in the sink and grab your Magic Eraser. Refocus the preschooler with his brother's iPod while he YouTubes surprise egg videos.

STEP NINE:
Dress yourself and the children. If you're a rock star, you've already put some thought into this. Appropriate outfits have been washed and picked out the night before along with dress shoes and socks. If you're me, this is the time to push the panic button or even consider canceling Thanksgiving altogether. The mad scramble ensues of attempting to find clothing to fit children that seem to be growing at a rapid pace. Once I've established their outfits, I make them sit around in their underwear until five minutes before the guests are expected. It
only took one experience of a child in dress clothes to become covered in mud or grass or markers for this to become our norm. They don't even question it anymore.

STEP TEN:
Enjoy the fruits of your labor and bask in the adoration of your family.

Just kidding. This gig is thankless. You know that. You're not surprised. Our kids don't notice all the little things we do for them every day, and when it comes to adults giving you props, they are even worse. The truth is, they might not appreciate it. They might not appreciate you. But you did it! You cooked and cleaned your ass off and you rocked it. You're wearing your favorite apron, standing over the Thanksgiving table that was a labor of love, you have a smile on your face and a (seventh) drink in your hand, and they say, “Mom always makes two different kinds of stuffing to make everyone happy. Mom is awesome like that.”

And you are.

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THANKSGIVING ETIQUETTE MANIFESTO

by Leslie Marinelli

E
very year, I spend weeks planning and preparing for the most highly anticipated meal of the year, only to have my Rockwellian dreams shattered in a matter of seconds by the arrival of my extended family. But if there's one thing I've learned over the last eleven years of hosting this iconic holiday event, it's that you can't choose your relatives. And the definition of insanity really is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results.

I'm tired of being disappointed year after year by my family's consistent lack of etiquette, gratitude, and basic hygiene. The solution? A Thanksgiving Etiquette Manifesto so everyone knows exactly what I expect this year. It will either improve our communication, or offend everyone so much that nobody comes. Either way, I win.

Dear family:

You will arrive on time. Show some respect. Being “fashionably late” to a holiday meal is about as cool as carrying a CB radio in your fanny pack. Nothing throws a wrench in the works like having to stop my rhythmic gravy whisking to properly welcome people who arrive two hours late. I don't care if you're family. You jack up my gravy and I'll cut you.

You will be completely dressed and groomed
before
you arrive. And no, sweatpants don't count. I've been cleaning and cooking for weeks at this point. Take a shower and put on some real pants. Also, just because we share the same surname does not mean it's even remotely okay for you to borrow my husband's toenail clippers and then proceed to use them on my coffee table.

You will not enter my home empty-handed. Nothing soothes the savage beast like a hostess gift. Flowers are lovely, but do me a solid and put them in a vase
before
you arrive. I can't possibly be bothered arranging your last-minute discount grocery store bouquet while I'm sweeping up Uncle Zebedee's toenail clippings. Even better, how about if you all go in on a gift certificate for a massage? I'm much more likely to forgive you for burning a hole in my grandmother's antique tablecloth if you treat me to a one-hour therapeutic session with a man named Hans.

You will not use your smartphone at my holiday table. I don't care if you're a moody teenager. I don't care if you're shy. I don't care if your parents let you do it at home.
It's rude to use technology at the table.
 Do it again, and so help me God, I will snatch that little glowing box from your hands and toss it right out my front door. And when you go to retrieve it, I will lock your rude little ass outside with the dog faster than you can say, “OMG.”
More pie for me, motherfucker.

Your side dishes will be “table ready.” So you offered to bring a side dish. There's hope for you yet! Just please know that it totally doesn't count unless you bring it “table ready.” Oh, I'm sorry . . . not ringing a bell? That means fully prepared, in a holiday-table-appropriate serving bowl (i.e., not a plastic Country Crock container), complete with serving utensils. Walking in my front door (late), yammering on your phone, with two unopened cans of cranberry jelly in a Walmart bag? Bitch, please. Were you raised in a barn?

You will eat what your hostess serves. As far as the menu goes, unless you have life-or-death food allergies, just . . . Suck. It. Up. So what if my sweet potatoes aren't like your mother's?
My house, my menu.
 Say what? You don't like fried onions in your green bean casserole? I'll give you two choices: pick them off or just say no thank you. This is not Burger King, m'kay?

Are you on a special diet? Not eating carbs this week? Well, tough turkey, Tanisha. It's a holiday. Live a little. Asking someone to make you a separate pumpkin pie with Splenda is like ordering an extra-large Diet Coke to wash down your triple cheeseburger and supersized fries. Hey, know what else is great for reducing calories? Portion control. Or instead of sacking out on my couch right after dinner, I bet you'd burn a ton of calories clearing the table and washing some dishes.

4

PUNCH-YOUR-HUSBAND-IN-THE-FACE-IF-HE-ASKS-FOR-STOVE-TOP-ONE-MORE-TIME STUFFING

by Abby Byrd

T
his year, perhaps you've vowed to make an original holiday dish that will become family legend. And perhaps your efforts to create said dish have been trampled upon at every turn by a tribe of philistines who keep asking why we aren't having “the stuff in the box.” We are having homemade stuffing, you answer, because family traditions do not come in a box.

Perhaps your husband looks at you warily, and then reminds you how “savory” he finds Stove Top.

Give a tight-lipped smile and tell him that your stuffing has sausage in it, and he will reluctantly retreat.

Do NOT tell him about the cranberries and apples.

STEP ONE:
On dinner day, prep the following ingredients by chopping them and putting them aside, maybe in adorable little ramekins that you can photograph, if you are inclined to do that
sort of thing.

1 medium onion

2–3 stalks celery

1 medium apple

If you're using fresh herbs, you can also chop them up ahead of time and put them aside, and feel superior for doing so.

1
⁄
3
cup fresh parsley

2 ½ Tablespoons fresh or dried sage

1 Tablespoon fresh or dried rosemary

½ Tablespoon fresh or dried thyme

STEP TWO:
In a large skillet, sauté onion, celery, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Add a bag of precooked turkey sausage crumbles (or fresh turkey sausage, if you're feeling generous) and cook for a few minutes to blend flavors.

STEP THREE:
While this is cooking, dump your 14-ounce bag of prepared Pepperidge Farm stuffing cubes into a bowl (or a greased baking dish if you don't plan to stuff a bird), and get ready your carton of turkey or chicken stock and 4 tablespoons of melted butter.

STEP FOUR:
Pour sausage mixture over the stuffing cubes. Mix in chopped apples, parsley, and ¾ cup of dried cranberries.

STEP FIVE:
Argue with mother or mother-in-law or both about how much stock to add to the mixture. Strive to walk the fine line between too-wet stuffing and too-dry stuffing. (You need about a cup if you're stuffing a bird but closer to 3 cups if you're baking the stuffing separately. Eyeball it.) Drizzle with melted butter.

STEP SIX:
Drink at least two beers or one glass of wine before packing this mixture into a dead bird's body cavity. If you're preparing the stuffing separately, simply cover and bake at 350 for about 45 minutes. Uncover for the last ten minutes or so if you want the top nice and crispy.

STEP SEVEN:
Eat a bag of Hershey's bars and have another glass of wine while this fabulous dish is baking. You've earned it. This is some sweet-AND-savory-ass stuffing right here. Nobody in your house better even think about asking for Stove Top.