I spent the day before Thanksgiving pretty much in a funk. With no family coming for the holiday, and no invitation to join others, I was wallowing in self-pity. Around mid-afternoon I decided to take control of things and plunged head-long into the maelstrom of supermarket shoppers to buy me a Thanksgiving dinner, by god.
The parking lot was choked with the stressed, the rushed, and the pissed off, all vying for limited parking spaces. Inside, every cart was loaded with enough ingredients to cook for several neighborhoods. Not me. I was into short cuts. No fun cooking from scratch for myself, I decided, so I grabbed the very last cooked turkey breast in the warming drawer and headed to the deli counter for cranberry sauce, the packaged goods aisle for stuffing-in-a-box and an envelope of generic and tasteless brown gravy mix. Next, the freezer section for a frozen pumpkin pie. The only concession I made for fresh food was one sweet potato. Done!
Thanksgiving dawned warm and sunny, and after dawdling on the patio with the morning paper and a cup of coffee, I assembled the ingredients for my feast-for-one to decide my "cooking" strategy. It was so simple: everything could go into a 350 degree oven starting with the frozen pie which required a couple of hours of cooling time, followed by the potato, the stuffing and, finally the turkey breast which just needed warming up.
In the end, I think it was about creating the aromas and sounds of Thanksgiving that I craved: the savory stuffing browning off in the oven and a football game on the TV in the background. I also realized that I had been true to the traditions I had been brought up with -- a meal that tasted like home and was surprisingly good. Minus my mother's green bean, mushroom soup and fried onion casserole. I just couldn't do it.
The parking lot was choked with the stressed, the rushed, and the pissed off, all vying for limited parking spaces. Inside, every cart was loaded with enough ingredients to cook for several neighborhoods. Not me. I was into short cuts. No fun cooking from scratch for myself, I decided, so I grabbed the very last cooked turkey breast in the warming drawer and headed to the deli counter for cranberry sauce, the packaged goods aisle for stuffing-in-a-box and an envelope of generic and tasteless brown gravy mix. Next, the freezer section for a frozen pumpkin pie. The only concession I made for fresh food was one sweet potato. Done!
Thanksgiving dawned warm and sunny, and after dawdling on the patio with the morning paper and a cup of coffee, I assembled the ingredients for my feast-for-one to decide my "cooking" strategy. It was so simple: everything could go into a 350 degree oven starting with the frozen pie which required a couple of hours of cooling time, followed by the potato, the stuffing and, finally the turkey breast which just needed warming up.
In the end, I think it was about creating the aromas and sounds of Thanksgiving that I craved: the savory stuffing browning off in the oven and a football game on the TV in the background. I also realized that I had been true to the traditions I had been brought up with -- a meal that tasted like home and was surprisingly good. Minus my mother's green bean, mushroom soup and fried onion casserole. I just couldn't do it.
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