Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays (3 page)

5

THE GREAT FROZEN TURKEY INCIDENT OF 2006

by Christine Burke

W
hen my husband and I were young and stupid (read: poor and stupid), we used to daydream about having big family holidays in the new home we didn't yet own. Visions of snowy windows, crackling fireplaces, and family with rosy cheeks at our door used to dance in our heads. We used to get positively giddy at the thought of our family gathered around our hearth and home, all swooning at the perfection that we'd created.

Yeah.

Let me tell you about Thanksgiving 2006.

Or, as I like to call it, The Great Frozen Turkey Incident of 2006.

In September 2006, our youngest joined the family. For reasons still not clear to us, we thought that fall would be a GREAT time to do the following:

1.
 Establish a new routine with a newborn and a toddler.

2.
 Sell our house.

3.
 Buy a new house.

4.
 Invite twenty-two people over to our house for Thanksgiving.

As you well know, a newborn in the house equates to constant laundry, cracked nipples, sibling rivalry, and sleep deprivation. Oh, the sleep deprivation. The I'm-so-tired-I-don't-think-I'm-actually-sleeping-when-I'm-sleeping tired. The How-did-I-drive-here-and-not-hit-seventeen-cars? tired. The I-will-cut-you-if-I-don't-get-some-sleep tired. And, about eight weeks in, you are fairly certain that you will never. Sleep. Again. And that your toddler needs to go live with the gypsies.

Eight weeks in brings us smack-dab to Thanksgiving 2006.

When you invite twenty-two people to your home for Thanksgiving, it is usually a bonus to have a place to actually put them. Our first home was by no means small, however, we had long outgrown putting a couple of tables in the family room to house everyone. So, this particular year, my husband convinced me that our guests would be most comfortable in our garage. In. Our. Garage. Next to the motor oil and fertilizer. Can someone
pass the potatoes and the air compressor hose?

Upon waking up that morning (read: realizing I was sleep-drooling on the nursery floor), I set about tackling the tasks of the day. Gravy supplies? Check! Fifteen pounds of potatoes peeled? Check, check! Cranberry sauce made from scratch? Bitch, check that, yo! Turkey defrosted?

Houston, we have a problem. A big, twenty-two-pound, FROZEN problem.

Twenty-two people coming to my house in five hours and we have a twenty-two-pound frozen bird sitting on my counter.

I haven't slept in fifty-six days, and I have twenty-two people coming for dinner, and my frigging turkey is frozen.

Those who were present for these fifteen minutes in time have described the moment I found out about the frozen turkey as epic. My parents and hubby simply stood out of harm's way as I totally, completely, and categorically lost my marbles right there in my kitchen. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience and I was scary enough that when my brother and sister in law arrived from their hotel in the middle of my meltdown, they simply turned around and left for an hour.

I have heard reports that when my dad asked what they could do to help, I yelled, in a primal manner, “You people need to find me a frigging turkey.” I do remember guttural screaming and I do remember the mixture of horror and amusement my hubby had as he watched his normally sane wife come unglued over frozen fowl. In that moment, I understood what it meant to be 100 percent batshit crazy. When my dad asked if turkey cutlets would do in a pinch (I still marvel at the bravery of that man to even ask that question), reports are that I rounded on him, eyes
bulging, and yelled, “Get me a turkey with bones or don't come home.”

And then my husband suggested that we try to defrost the turkey . . . IN. THE. BATHTUB.

That
might
have been the straw that broke the camel's back.

Garage. Frozen. Bathtub. Fifty-six days with no sleep.

It was all just too much.

All I wanted was to have the Happiest Thanksgiving Ever, and now we were officially throwing the White Trash Hillbilly Holiday. The dining room smelled like grease, there was a turkey wrapped in a garbage bag defrosting in the guest bathroom, and my dad just came home with a fresh $75 free-range turkey because he was too afraid to show his face empty-handed.

Much of the rest of the day passed in a blur of Chardonnay and postictal confusion. The meal was cooked, the space heaters crackled, and there was frost on the garage windows. Our families sat in my garage and ate that free-range turkey gleefully. There were no worries about children spilling juice, parents and in-laws quietly chuckled at how the mighty Martha Stewart had fallen to a new hillbilly low, and the children had plenty of space to run like lunatics. I consumed my body weight in Chardonnay that day, and I can report that I slept like a baby for the first time in fifty-six days.

I believe it was my mother-in-law who whispered in my ear, “Honey, now THAT'S how you throw a Thanksgiving to remember.”

6

SIX REASONS THE KIDS' TABLE IS THE BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE

by Andrea Condodemetraky

E
very holiday it happens: There's not enough room at the big people's table, so someone digs out a rickety old card table with rusted, mismatched folding chairs from the garage, throws a stained tablecloth on it, and calls it the kids' table. No one over the age of fourteen ever wants to sit at the kids' table. But, why? That's just crazy talk!

Whether it is because of having little ones in high chairs, or just being the “martyr” of the family and saying, “No,
you
go ahead and sit with the adults; I'll sit at the little table,” I've been there and have to say, it's a lot more fun than not. Here are a few
things you should keep in mind if you are in a position to make a move to the kids' table this year . . .

1.
 It is socially acceptable at the kids' table to do things that are frowned upon at the adults' table. Burping, farting, blowing bubbles in milk, and eating mashed potatoes like Randy from
A Christmas Story
are not only acceptable but expected at this table.

2.
 The kids get served first. Want your pick of the buffet items? The kids are ushered through the kitchen first, so if you are picked or volunteered for the kids' table, you have a right to get in line behind five-year-old cousin Timmy. You do risk cousin Timmy spilling his wobbly paper plate on your foot, thus covering your new wedge boots in gravy, but this is a risk you will need to take in your position.

3.
 There is always a toddler you can blame things on. Spills? Food on the floor? Half-chewed brussels sprouts spit into a napkin? Just. Blame. The. Toddler.

4.
 Specialty items at the kids' table. There is always that one child at the holidays that is a picky eater. They don't eat turkey, they hate green beans, they gag at the thought of stuffing. If your family is like mine, there is inevitably a plate of chicken fingers at the kids' table only to ensure they have something of substance to eat before the almighty dessert table is visited. So if you are seated at the kids' table, you may get to indulge in some kid-happy food like chicken fingers and pizza bites or something of the sort. If you are at one of those Pottery Barn–type Thanksgivings where the hostess actually goes all out on the kids' table,
you may even find a chocolate favor or something like it at your place setting. BONUS!

5.
 No one notices how much wine you are drinking. Kids at the table are not going to pay attention to how many times you have refilled your wineglass (or in this case, whineglass?). At the adult table, you may be silently judged for how much sauce (not cranberry) you are taking in to help get you through the holiday madness.

6.
 Kids are much more fun than adults. You will most likely hear more entertaining stories at this table—brutal, blatant honesty about life in general—and have more belly laughs than you would at the adult table.

Whether you are at the adults' table or the infamous kids' table, I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving. May you find the joy in the holiday no matter where you sit!

7

FAKING IT IN THE KITCHEN

by Jennifer Weedon Palazzo

T
he official definition of “holiday” is “a day of festivity or recreation when no work is done.” This definition was obviously written by a childless single man with no extended family.

My definition of “holiday”? “A day that formerly held religious or cultural significance but upon marriage and motherhood become a gauntlet-esque test of one's creativity, work ethic, culinary expertise, and diplomatic skills.” Oh, and it's a crap-ton of work. Especially the baking part.

I mean, who has time to bake these days? The last time I tried to make a pie, my son had a temper tantrum over why he isn't allowed to swallow quarters and I forgot all about the pie until
the smoke alarm went off.

Since then, I've become a pro at passing off store-bought goodies as my own. You can too, by following my no-fail tips:

•
 Store-bought pie crusts are far too symmetrical. Use the back of a spoon to rough them up a bit by smushing them for a more homemade look. If the top of a pie looks too pristine, cover it in whipped cream and sprinkle some nutmeg or cinnamon on top.

•
 Serving cookies warm always makes them seem homemade, and you don't even have to use the oven, just nuke them in the microwave for thirty seconds. If the bottoms of store-bought cookies look too perfect, use a butter knife to roughen them up, and if you want to go the extra mile, brown the bottoms of the cookies in a frying pan over butter to give them that slightly burnt made-at-home-look.

•
 If you're using a store-bought cake mix, the key is not to mix it too well. Forget using your electric mixer that has never come out of the box, just a regular dinner fork will do the trick. Lumps are charming!

•
 Sprinkle whatever you have on hand into premade dough, like Pillsbury Crescents or Nestlé Toll House cookie dough. Got some raisins or almonds you've been trying to pass off as yummy snacks to your kids? Did your kids get a slew of candy canes at school that you wish they hadn't? Mix that shit in!

•
 If you are serving these counterfeit treats at your own home, pour some imitation vanilla into a baking pan and heat it in a three-hundred-degree oven for an hour. Your house smells
cleaner and you give the vital olfactory illusion of baking.

•
 Sprinkle some flour on your pants. Even better, put some in your hair. It will act as a dry shampoo
and
convince people you've been baking.

•
 If anyone asks for your recipe, sweetly claim it's a closely guarded family secret. If an actual family member asks, tell them you found it online and forgot to bookmark it.

Oh, the hours of time and effort I've saved you! You can thank me by inviting my in-laws to YOUR house next year. I'll bring the vanilla extract.