Thanksgiving: The Day I Become Martha Stewart… for 12 Exhausting Hours
Thanksgiving. The one day a year when I channel my inner Martha Stewart, fully committing to the illusion that I’ve got this holiday thing down to an art. Spoiler: I do not. But for those 12 hours, I will fake it like a professional, with a smile so dazzling it could blind a turkey.
Step 1: The Table Setting Olympics
Let’s start with the table—because if I’m going to spend three days cooking, you better believe the dining room is going to look like a Pinterest board exploded in there. We’re talking hand-pressed linens, perfectly polished silverware (that I use once a year), and centerpieces so artful they deserve their own gallery.
I even consider place cards because details matter, but then I remember that everyone will ignore them, so I just strategically put friend Passive-Aggressive as far from sister Conspiracy Theory as humanly possible.
Oh, and the chairs? Each one has a little sprig of rosemary tied to the back because nothing says “I have my life together” like herbs doubling as decor.
Step 2: The Culinary Showdown
I begin the cooking process with a detailed timeline and a playlist of calming French bistro music. By hour three, I’m blasting 80s rock and yelling at the turkey like it owes me money.
The bird gets stuffed with aromatics I can’t pronounce, basted with butter like it’s going to a spa, and roasted to what I pray is perfection. Meanwhile, I’m making everything from scratch—mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, pies—because store-bought is not fine (right, Martha)?
I don’t just cook food; I curate an experience. That cranberry sauce? It’s not coming out of a can, thank you very much. It’s simmering on the stove with orange zest and just a whisper of cinnamon because I’m fancy like that. Of course, no one actually eats it, but it looks great in photos.
Step 3: The Dress Rehearsal
By the time guests arrive, I’m sweating in a silk blouse because I had the bright idea to dress up. I’m balancing champagne flutes while checking the oven temp and tossing dog toys into closets like a stealth ninja.
When the doorbell rings, I plaster on my “grateful host” smile and welcome everyone into my perfectly staged home, praying they don’t open the pantry where I shoved all the clutter. “Oh, you brought wine? How thoughtful! Yes, just put it over there with the other seven bottles I’ll need to survive this day.”
Step 4: The Dinner Theater
Dinner is served—on time, because I’m nothing if not dedicated to the schedule. The table sparkles, the food looks like a magazine spread, and I’m floating around like I’m hosting a gala.
But then someone asks, “Is the turkey dry?” and I have to remind myself that Thanksgiving is about gratitude, not homicide. The dogs are playing a loud game of “see who can spill their food so we can catch it in mid air ,” and the conversation shifts to why gluten-free stuffing will never be a thing.
I try to steer things back to my flawless sweet potato casserole, but no one notices the marshmallow design I painstakingly torched into hearts. Instead, they’re all too busy arguing about whether the mashed potatoes needed more butter. I smile tightly, clenching my perfectly manicured fork, and think about the three hours I spent making them.
Step 5: The Aftermath
When the plates are cleared, and dessert is served, I’m ready to collapse. But the show must go on. “Of course, I’ll brew coffee! Who wants decaf?” I ask, like a Stepford wife who definitely doesn’t want to cry into her pie crust.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the last guest leaves, the kids are asleep, and the house is destroyed. I pour myself a glass of Veuve Clicquot (I earned it), sit down in the one clean chair, and survey the battlefield.
Sure, I’m exhausted. My body hurts, the kitchen looks like a war zone, and I may or may not have sworn off hosting forever. But then I remember the smiles, the laughs, and the fact that I pulled this off again. Plus, the photos look stunning, so that’s all anyone will remember.
And as I light my favorite Tiffany 1837 candle to mask the lingering smell of burnt marshmallows, I think, “Next year, I’m definitely catering.”