How I Learned To Survive Thanksgiving

I began to sour on Thanksgiving in earnest the year that Mrs. Banks’ sister arrived with her family from Philadelphia two full days before the holiday (“we figured, why not beat the traffic?”) and didn’t leave until the following Sunday morning. It was an ordeal. My in-laws are wonderful people and will likely be invited here again for Thanksgiving before the end of this decade or maybe a little after, I promise. But everyone has his own habits, and one of theirs, unfortunately, is that they don’t observe the daily cocktail hour. (Mrs. Banks and I of course do, religiously, and it often lasts quite a bit longer than an hour.)  This put a crimp in the daily rhythm of domestic life. And, frankly, it put a damper on my afternoon imbibage. I found out that for some reason my little bon mots, always such a hit with the guys at the club, tend to not get big laughs when the people hearing them are only drinking Diet Coke. When I told them the one about the movie star, the rabbi, and the turtle, I swear no one had a clue what I was talking about.

After three days of this, my mood was sufficiently sullen that when the time finally came to gather for the holiday meal, I realized what a downer the traditional Thanksgiving menu is. It’s a mélange of white and mushy (mashed potatoes), brown and mushy (turkey stuffing), and mushy and mushy (candied yams), all laid out alongside the tan and the bland (that damn turkey). That might have been a decent enough meal for people who’d, 400 years ago, spent the prior twelve months darn near starving to death. But here in the early 21st century, I’m surprised Martha Stewart hasn’t staged an intervention.

In the years since that Week That Would Not Die, Mrs. Banks has done some tinkering with our Thanksgiving menu and has improved it considerably. Despite lobbying by me, the turkey is still in the lineup (albeit from —a plus).  But now the bird is matched with what turns out to be an ideal complement: rack of lamb. And we have corn fritters (not mushy!). Alas, there is nothing to be done about the mashed potatoes. But the yams are out of the picture. And the stuffing, which I was perhaps overly harsh about before, is outstanding. The only thing on the menu that can be spotty is the giblet gravy, and that’s because I’m the one who makes it.

At our house, we aim to serve around 5:00, and sometimes succeed. The main benefit of planning an earlyish dinner is that, whether it gets to the table on time or not, cocktails can start early, too, no matter who’s visiting. We’ll usually start mixing at 4:00 and, since the Lions game is actually going to be worth watching for once, might start even earlier this year.