Saveur

Forget sweet 16, high-school prom, or college graduation: in my family, the day you host Thanksgiving dinner is the day you become a woman. But no matter what fantasies of Betty Crocker–style domestic bliss may dance through your head, take it from me: like going through puberty or losing your virginity, this is a messy rite of passage.

My trial came at the age of 25. I'd moved with my boyfriend from New York City to Albuquerque, New Mexico, into a little adobe house near the old Route 66. Our apartment back East had cost thousands of dollars a month in rent and consisted of a bathroom and a six-by-eight-foot bedroom without a window. In Albuquerque we had a fireplace, a dining room, a window seat, a yard, a driveway, and a red 1982 Volkswagen Rabbit convertible to park in it—hell, we were living the American dream. Who wouldn't want to show that off?

So, invitations were extended and plane tickets were purchased. My mother (an almost pathologically perfect hostess, who still swears that Martha Stewart steals her ideas) had been holding Thanksgiving for our extended family in Connecticut for more than two decades, but she happily passed her apron to me. I had big shoes to fill, I knew, yet I felt equal to the task.

Truthfully, though, I'm a big idea girl who's not so great at organized execution. The week before Thanksgiving, my boyfriend's cousin drove down from Denver, and the two of them spent the days leading up to the holiday wandering in and out of the house on a beer-fueled bender; my teenage brother camped out in his pajamas, watching TV on my living-room floor; and I ran around after all three of them, shrieking and sponging up spills and beef jerky crumbs.

I'd mapped out what I was sure would be an enormous and awe-inspiring menu mingling a traditional spread of green beans and mashed potatoes with some Southwestern-inflected additions like green chile–corn bread stuffing and prickly pear cranberry sauce, but sure enough, when my parents and uncles arrived two days before T-Day, the pantry was still bare. My mother was alarmed, but I was too proud to plead for help. I was a grown woman, damn it, and I had everything under control; in fact, I was just about to run to the store! Why didn't they put their feet up and have a glass of wine? Or maybe some beef jerky?

I was speeding back from the market, with a hulking fresh organic turkey next to me and a backseat piled to the car roof with sweet potatoes and sausage, when my tire blew. As I waited on the side of the road for help to come and take me to the tire shop, I watched the sun sink in the sky and my precious hours of prep time tick by. Another day was shot.

Ever an optimist, though, I rose the next day raring to go. My uncles were at their hotel, my parents were off exploring the city, and the boys were outside wrestling. I snapped green beans, sliced delicata squash, and made a maple syrup glaze; I chopped pecans and rolled pie dough; I churned out two kinds of stuffing. For a brief, intoxicating moment, I allowed myself to believe the worst had passed.

Then T-Day was upon me. It was now or never. The bird had to be stuffed, the squash had to roast, the gravy had be made. It was still dark when I lugged the turkey out of the back of the refrigerator and planted it on the kitchen counter. It landed with an alarming smack, and its cold skin stung my fingers. Holy crap, I marveled: had it half-frozen overnight? It was too late to do anything about it, so I said a prayer as I stuffed (and tried not to scream at my brother, who was filming the whole process with a pornographer's glint in his eye) and hoped that a day in the oven would make things right.

Eight hours later, the table was spread, candles were lit, and multiple bottles of wine had already been consumed, but Thanksgiving couldn't truly begin without the bird. I tied on my apron and pulled the turkey from the oven. Surely it had to be done. I bent over it, brandishing a gleaming carving knife, and cut a triumphant first slice. But was the inside supposed to be so pink? I withered: my friends and family were hungry, and all I had to offer was a raw carcass with a golden brown crust.

By then the panic was plain on my face. That's when Dad, whether motivated by sympathy or by three bottles of syrah, insisted the turkey was fine and, taking my knife, started piling thick slices on a china platter. Wolves might have thought twice about eating this meat, it was so bloody, but not my father.

To my family's credit, when I placed the platter on the table, my cheeks tearstained and flushed with shame, no one said a word. I pretended not to notice the plates with meat hidden under piles of mashed potatoes, and later we cleaned up together and hugged and kissed good-bye, and everyone thanked me for a delicious meal. The next day I bought an oven thermometer. And by the time a copy of the cookbook Thanksgiving 101 arrived in my mailbox a week later (courtesy of dear old Dad), I could manage a laugh at the memory.

Now my boyfriend and I are settled back in New York, where our apartment is again the size of a matchbox. No turkeys are coming out of this kitchen. I can't be the only one who's relieved.

—Sarah Karnasiewicz


Most of us have at least one friend who is truly gifted in the kitchen. My friend Julia* is not that person. (*Names have been changed so as to prevent banishment from my social circle.) I love Julia for many reasons, but her culinary skills are not among them. Julia has an uncanny ability to come up with unlikely dishes that might pass for "gourmet" if only they tasted good, but they don't. For instance, she once offered to bring a gallon of puréed fruit to a picnic. Thankfully for the rest of us picnickers, her husband talked her out of it.

We haven't always been so lucky. Many harvest moons ago, I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for friends and family. In preparation, I asked my guests to pitch in with side dishes, figuring I would be busy enough fixing the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. It was a simple request, and I thought I knew what to expect. Where I grew up, in the southern end of the Midwest, side dishes typically consist of canned-vegetable concoctions, a few homemade pies, and at least one version of ambrosia salad.

Still, I called Julia with apprehension, knowing she should be watched like a wobbly soufflé when asked to cook anything, anytime, much less for Thanksgiving dinner, the greatest of all American feasts. As anticipated, her first offering, an original creation that combined wasabi and sweet potatoes, gave me the shudders. Thinking fast, I explained to Julia that I wouldn't ingest anything made of horseradish whose name didn't involve the word bloody or mary, and with that Julia relented, suggesting whiskey-braised sweet potatoes instead. By then, I was worn out enough to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Thanksgiving arrived, and I should've known the minute Julia walked in the door with her sweet potatoes that something wasn't right. My entire apartment reeked of booze, and the spuds looked suspiciously soupy. I served them anyway. What ensued was a drunken Thanksgiving that would have made the Pilgrims blush. Julia hadn't boiled down the whiskey in the sweet potatoes; she'd mixed it in—a lot of it in. The result was more whiskey–sweet potato shooter than vegetable side dish, but, wanting not to hurt her feelings, my guests consumed it with gusto. By the time pumpkin pie was served, the whole table was hiccupping.

Despite a wicked hangover the next day, I have to give Julia credit for warming us up. Her hooch-pickled yams led to lots of late-night laughter and reminiscing and the recognition that Thanksgiving is not about sweet potatoes or even turkey. It's about feasting on friendship.

—Sarah Wolff