I am such a turkey. I was too sick to make Thanksgiving dinner, and I can't even describe how dreadful that was. I love Thanksgiving; I love to cook; I love to be with friends and family; I think it's a wonderful holiday.
I don't like to admit defeat, however - I was defeated. I couldn't do something I loved. Though mostly Irish, I am more Jewish mother than anything. I remember Thanksgivings as a child, and my mom taught me how to make so much great food - and even now, I want that food on Thanksgiving. This is not the time to start throwing dried apricots in the stuffing, or trying weird new things. I don't want strange; I want familiar.
Well, Publix (our supermarket) made our Thanksgiving dinner (though I did make my own pies - commercial pies are just so depressing). I watched carefully as guests put food in their mouths, wondering if they liked it, or were just being polite. Did they know they were eating food straight from the industrial complex? Were they sorry they came?
And suddenly, it dawns: Thanksgiving was all about me - and not about the holiday. So this Thanksgiving, I learned about the danger and deceit of pride. I almost missed a lovely time with people I care about because I was so embarrassed about the food, and how it would reflect on folk's opinions of me.
Our family and friends had a great time - and they enjoyed the food that had been prepared for them. Though I didn't prepare it, I reheated it with love.