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Wednesday, November 25, 1998 By Samantha Bennett
We in the media are in the business of anticipating occasions and blathering on about them endlessly before they even happen, so that by the time the Big Day is at hand you are heartily sick of it and would rather spend it with your head in a bucket of sand.
We were taught this business by our pals the retailers, who have six seasons: Valentine's Day (starts Dec. 26), Easter/Spring (starts Feb. 15), Summer/Barbecue (starts April 1), Back To School (starts July 5), Halloween (starts Sept. 1) and Holiday (starts as soon after Labor Day as you can get the plastic trees up without popping the clearance beach balls).
All this is just a long way of telling you that I'm doing you a favor by not talking about Thanksgiving until today, when you have 24 hours or less to go. Frankly, you're lucky this isn't the Christmas column.
I volunteered to host a dinner for friends this year. Oh sure, I've got family not too far over the state line. I could go. But you know, sometimes you appreciate family more if you do something else for a year or two. Like whack yourself in the forehead with a mallet.
Family holidays are so predictable. Not unlike Greek tragedies. You've got your hubris, your epiphany, your tragic flaw, your catharsis, your relatives trying to murder one another. Plus one or more of the following trite stock elements, which I suggest you copy onto a card, take with you to dinner and see how long it takes to get bingo:
But what would the feast be without the dysfunctional dynamics, simmering resentments and ritual sniping? These traditions are as American as football and trying to get dip out of the crocheted afghan with a napkin dunked in white wine. How can we pass them up?
Well, I'm about to find out. I'm not joining the family. I thought it would be fun to "take in strays" this year and have a cozy, stress-free little soirée of my own with friends whose work schedules or distance keep them from their loved ones. There's no chance of it getting out of control because there are only three or four people, tops, in Western Pennsylvania who don't have immediate family here.
At first, I wasn't going to cook, because I don't, really. I'm a founding member of that big demographic of young single persons who can't tell you, with any confidence, what is in tuna salad. But now I'm filled with the holiday spirit of groundless optimism, so I'm going to wash all those dishes in my sink and make a big, wrinkled yuck face while I wrestle inexpertly with slimy turkey breasts. If I don't set off the smoke alarm or drop the entrée on the floor, it will be a success.
My mom is a fabulous cook. And she has that innate ability to walk into someone else's kitchen and just pitch right in, knowing exactly what needs to be done and where to find the tools to do it. But all women are not born with this instinct. Do me a favor tomorrow: If there are women at your dinner who don't cook, let them sit in peace in the living room and watch (a) the baby, (b) the game or (c) for the fire trucks. If you're not going to begrudge the men their idleness, you can't resent other non-cooks just because they're female.
As for me, I have no more idea what to do in a strange kitchen than in an operating room, though if you hand me a vegetable and a knife I will be more than happy to cut myself.
Bon appetit!
Samantha Bennett can be reached by e-mail at sbennett@post-gazette.com.
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A woman who does most of the work.