It began early Sunday morning at the crack of noon when I called my roommate to find out why she wasn’t home to go Thanksgiving food/décor/accessory shopping. Turns out she’d been drinking with her boyfriend the night before and was still ’recovering’. Now I’m all for sleeping in and I’m all for boyfriends and I’m definitely all for drinking with said boyfriends but one thing I am against is inconsideration!
So maybe you’re confused. I completely understand so let’s back up just a step. I take you back to late last Thursday night when my roommate eagerly suggested we host Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday. Now we had already been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner, which would have involved little to no work on our part except showing up on time (which is sometimes actually the hardest part). So to consider hosting it ourselves would mean a heavy investment of both time and money- two things which we have very little of to spare. She also promised to make the turkey and to help with the sides and when she tries, I certainly can’t say no to her big, brown, puppy dog eyes. Especially when they plead placidly at me. So it’s decided – Thanksgiving dinner will be hosted at our place. Damn her hide! After numerous years of cohabitation, I still fall for her dirty tricks every time.
Nonetheless, although I have agreed to co-host the meal I knew it’d have to be a new age affair. Baking and cooking everything from scratch is for a bygone era. Just as boring women have clean houses; independent females have empty fridges. We’re both busy, professional, socially active 25+ year-old females and we certainly can’t be expected to bake an apple pie using fresh apples (doesn’t the iPhone have an app for that?). As my idea to get the whole dang thing catered was quickly shot down as too pricey (a method I have happily inherited from my very independent mother), we were left with only one viable option – to get our boyfriends to pay for the caterer. As that idea was shot down even faster we were now forced to make the whole dang thing ourselves. I emphasize the terms ‘we’ and ‘ourselves’. And I would also like to emphasize that ‘ourselves’ included Stove Top brand stuffing, Costco’s bakery department and pre-packaged gravy. We quickly set up a menu and sent out invites to a select few fun pals whom we knew had potentially no plans for Sunday evening.
After that, I went on living, blissfully unaware of the hiccups that were to unfold including the 7kg frozen turkey we purchased that had only 30 hours to do 70 hours worth of defrosting and my roommate’s green face as she read that the giblets had to be physically removed from the defrosted raw bird, by hand. This was followed by missing muffin tins for Yorkshire puddings that turned out to be safely tucked away in an ex’s kitchen- far across town and ended with my inability to find 2L of plain ol’ vanilla ice cream for under $8 from the local markets.
Which brings us to Sunday morning. I woke up, went to the gym, returned home, started prepping for the day and noticed at noon that my partner in crime had yet to show up/text or send word via Saint Bernard of her location to go shopping and pretty much do Thanksgiving. Annoyed, I called her to find out that she was still recovering from her previous nights’ shenanigans. I yelled out that she’d “Ruined Thanksgiving!” and hung up. Yes, Drama Queen Histrionics 101. I should teach a class. I then continued on solo to the markets to pick up the remaining ingredients. Chagrined, she immediately called back, apologized and happily agreed to my terms of surrender: picking up the pricey caramel apple pie from Costco, vacuuming and straightening up the living room, and cleaning the main bathroom – something we both readily avoid unless faced with impending guests.
In the end the meal turned out perfectly, natch, and we all left the table just as stuffed as the bird my roommate was too afraid to touch. We also have plenty of leftovers filling up our no longer empty fridge if you’re interested.
So this Thanksgiving I’m also thankful for guilt and its resulting helpfulness. I would also like to add that my roomie was the best sous-chef a girl could ask for.
Now, who wants seconds?