I’m usually a pretty confident guy in the kitchen.
If I’m cooking something I’m familiar with — like, say, crabcakes — I have no trouble. If I have a recipe in front of me, I’m willing to give nearly anything a try.
So why in the hell am I concerned about cooking a Thanksgiving meal for Mrs. Crappy and me?
We’re doing one of our normal Thanksgiving deals tomorrow — a trip up to Sarver to spend the day with Mrs. Crappy’s aunt and the family of one of her cousins. It’ll be a smaller-than-usual gathering, but Mrs. Crappy’s aunt will still pull out all the stops — bird, stuffing, potatoes — mashed and sweet — veggies, cranberry salad, multiple pies. It will be as luscious as usual.
On Friday night, we’ll do the same for ourselves, in part to enjoy a little holiday time with each other and in part to have all those leftovers without having to share.
Here’s the thing. Mrs. Crappy works on Friday, so most of the cooking will be left to me. And I admit — I’m a little intimidated about that.
It’s not that there’s anything that’s all that complicated. But in cooking Thanksgiving, I’ll making stuff that our families have been making for years, and that’s a lot to live up to.
I remember the first time Mrs. Crappy made Thanksgiving dinner for my parents — AT MY PARENTS’ HOUSE. She was terrified about how it would go, and I thought she was crazy.
For me, Friday’s audience isn’t nearly as tough — but now I know how she felt.