My Perfectly Fake Thanksgiving
Photo by Joanna Kosinska
Let me start by saying I was desperate.
As a new wife hosting my first Thanksgiving for my husband’s family, I wanted it to be perfect. Mostly, I wanted to impress everyone, especially my mother-in-law.
My mother-in-law made entertaining look effortless: lush spreads, breathtaking handmade decorations, and every detail considered. You could say I was a teensy bit intimidated.
And by “a teensy bit,” I mean I had turned Thanksgiving dinner into a referendum on whether I was a good enough wife.
There I was, working my face off at a demanding job, learning how to be married, and figuring out my new role as a stepmom. Naturally, I decided the thing to do was host a flawless, magazine-worthy holiday meal.
My mother-in-law was a culinary force, somehow channeling Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, and Paula Deen in one person. At one of my first dinners with her, she transformed the tablescape into a spectacular dessert buffet. Dessert had been hiding in plain sight the entire evening. I was still trying to remember which of the six forks to use.
Her Thanksgivings featured beef Wellington, spiral-sliced ham, and maple bourbon turkey—just to make sure we covered every food group. So, staring down my first Thanksgiving with fear and trepidation, I did what any smart, able-bodied woman would do.
I went to Honey Baked Ham and bought practically everything they had in the store.
Then I transferred every entrée, side, and dessert into the prettiest heirloom platters and casserole dishes I owned, preparing to pass it all off as homemade.
But what if someone asked for a recipe?
Clearly, this operation needed supporting documentation.
I searched for recipes that resembled each dish, painstakingly copied them onto index cards, and assembled them in a binder. Apparently, I wanted everyone to believe I had spent years perfecting these cherished family traditions somewhere between getting married and going to work.
I even stained the pages for good measure.
The binder sat propped open on the counter, as though I had just slipped off my apron for a well-deserved rest. I can’t tell you a single thing about how that meal tasted. What I remember is the effort I put into hiding the Honey Baked Ham bags and containers.
All that energy spent covering my tracks when I could have been enjoying the people in my home.
Everyone ate. Everyone said the food was delicious. And my mother-in-law graciously celebrated every little thing I had done. Looking back, I suspect she was pleased as punch to sit down at a Thanksgiving dinner someone else had handled. I had made the whole day a test, and no one else even knew there was an exam.
Now I tell this story whenever I catch myself getting worked up over a holiday menu, a lavish table, or decorations that require their own project plan. I love a beautiful table. I love our familiar recipes and the way certain foods carry memories from one generation to the next.
But I’ve learned that a meal can be delicious without becoming a measure of my worth.
I wish I could sit beside that younger version of myself and tell her to take a breath.
Buy the dinner. Use the pretty dishes. Leave the recipe binder in the drawer.
You have nothing to prove here.
What I wanted then was to give everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving. What I understand now is how much I already had: people I loved, gathered in my home, with time to sit together.
Some of those people have since gone on to heaven. What I would give for another afternoon around the table with them. To hear their familiar stories. To ask one more question. To linger. I doubt I would spend much of that afternoon worrying about who made the potatoes.
As we head into the holiday season, I’m carrying that thought with me. I want to listen fully, laugh easily, and stay seated a little longer. And if buying a few dishes or asking everyone to bring something helps me do that, I’m all for it.
I don’t know how many more Thanksgivings I’ll have with the people I love. But I know how I want to spend them: less concerned with making everything perfect, more grateful we are together.
