Every Thanksgiving my mother was up against a lot.
Highly styled dinner tables glimmered on magazine covers.
Newspaper articles debated the superior turkey brands.
Recipes marched down her kitchen counter.
A copper mold decision for cranberry sauce hung in the troubled air.
She agonized through November, torching her perfectionism into raging flames.
Gradually I understood the cartoon she clipped to the wall calendar. It depicted an exhausted housewife saying, I’ve reached the point where I wish the Pilgrims had never come.
Nevertheless, she rose to the challenge and turned out a gorgeous meal by 3:30 pm each year.
My mother set a high bar. No wonder I remained terrified for decades.
Who knows why I finally decided to tackle a turkey, but I did. My previous post held me accountable, which might be the one good thing social media has helped me accomplish. I put it in print for all to see.
Readers offered advice and support. They believed I could succeed. Wisely, Cliff asked, “What’s the worst that could happen?” True. We had potatoes and pies.
I calmly drank coffee through the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, something my mother never saw. Then I rose and walked into the kitchen alone.
It was easy.
Cliff declared the dinner wonderful.
Maggie asked if I had plans for the leftover turkey because if not she’d like to use it in a pot of soup.
The two best thumbs-up ever.
My sixty-year fear overcome.
If my mother were still alive, she’d have said, “Honey, you’re the only one who thought you couldn’t do it.”