Shrimp-Shaped Carrots and Other Thanksgiving Crimes

Thanksgiving isn’t always Norman Rockwell turkeys and frilly aprons. In Jean’s world, it’s turkey rolls at the CCC, shrimp-shaped carrots at the culinary college, and relatives who think pet rats make great dinner companions. From flaming coffee to child-sized toilets, her holiday meals have been less “Hallmark” and more “sitcom blooper reel.” This year, she’ll be celebrating in sweatpants with a festive headdress, proving once again that widowhood comes with its own brand of holiday misadventures. AI….

I started The Misadventures of Widowhood blog in 2012, just after my husband passed away, and I’ve written a Thanksgiving post every year since. I just re-read them all back-to-back, and it made my head spin. I’ve gone from feeling sorry for myself because I couldn’t buy a turkey leg to fix for little old me, to last year silently bitching because my CCC served a turkey roll of pressed white meat instead of a golden skinned, whole turkey. And in between, there were all those years of being invited to an assortment of relatives’ homes for the holiday meal.

The last time I saw and smelled a whole turkey cooking was three years ago, when my great-nephew invited me and my brother to eat with his family of what felt like a million kids under six or seven, plus two large dogs, four pet rats, and a cat so fat I thought it was ready to deliver a litter of kittens—until I was told that was impossible. “Do you want to hold my rat?” I was asked before I even got my coat off. I replied, “No, thank you” when I wanted to scream, "Eek!! Get that thing away from me."

That day, the turkey was cooked in a smoker. Almost as delicious as the smoked turkey was the smoked Philadelphia Cream Cheese my great-nephew made. Who knew you could smoke just about anything and make it taste like heaven. Like his father and grandfather before him, my great-nephew has turned into a great cook. He and his wife would welcome me back again, but I refuse their holiday invitations because their guest bathroom literally has a child’s-height toilet, and my ancient knees won’t let me squat that low. Not to mention, I’m too old to have the patience to spend the afternoon with a flock of home-schooled kids who compete for my attention.

Sometimes I regret that the foodie gene skipped me altogether, and other times the selfish side of me is glad I escaped ever hosting a Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter dinner. But no one who ever saw the things I collected in my Hope Chest during the ’50s would have predicted my life would turn out the way it did. Least of all, me. Back then, unmarried girls like me thought we’d happily spend holidays wearing frilly cotton aprons trimmed with rick-rack and carrying a Better Homes Cookbook—with its classic red-and-white cover—tucked under our arm. We’d make our husbands read page 258 on "how to carve a turkey like an expert at the table" and we'd serve Jell-o ring salads like on page 285. (Yes I still have my very first cookbook. I think buying one was required before we could pass high school home economics class.) Back then, meat carving was the division of labor between the sexes when it came to holiday dinners. If you were lucky, you could get a guy to mash the potatoes, since that did take some brute strength. At least now, Mr. and Mrs. Host share much of the cooking and cleaning and guests bring the side dishes. Young women don’t know how lucky they.

Last week, twelve of my fellow residents and I went down to the culinary college here in town to eat at their fancy-ass restaurant, where future chefs must spend a semester working on the wait staff—and all eight students serving that day were male. Times are changing. Although chefs in five-star restaurants have traditionally been male, the chefs in places like where I live and in family restaurants haven’t been as male-dominated in the past as they seem to be today. And then there’s the whole distinction between chefs and cooks. 

I’ve been to the culinary college restaurant three or four times since my husband died, but it’s not easy to get reservations. They are fully books through the holidays, and our Life Enrichment Director is looking to book us another outing around Easter. You go there for the experience as much as the food.  It’s the kind of place where, if you order tea, they bring a cart to the table and make a production out of educating you about your choices, then leave you with a pot of hot water, a three-tube timer and a loose tea holder. I once ordered a coffee from their coffee cart, and they lit it on fire—the coffee, not the cart. That was fun. The dessert cart, of course, is my favorite. 

I’m guessing the students have to take a class on the art of arranging food and sauces on the plate. One of the ladies at my table ordered something that came with carrots and they were carved to look exactly like shrimp. You pay (through the nose) for the visual aspect and drama of the meal, and you risk going home to make yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because you’re still hungry.

The photo above is of my beef with-fancy-name-I-don't-recall entrée with potatoes. The bill came to $37, which included a scant cup of soup, great breads (3 half slices per person) with custom butters, the entrée, and a chocolate dessert about the size of a golf ball and it was to-die-for delicious. I drank water and I left the college student-future chef a $10 tip. 

This year I’ll be eating a turkey roll again here at the CCC, along with other courses that will please my taste buds—but they’ll be lucky if I trade my sweatpants for polyester. I will be wearing an Indian head dress (or Native American head dress if you want to be politically correct). Since moving here, I’ve accumulated a collection of holiday headbands. Don’t worry, I won’t look out of place, surrounded by fellow residents in their holiday-themed sweaters and shirts. When in Rome act like the Romans.  ©   

Until Next Wednesday, Happy Thanksgiving!

This is a clip of a classic pray that was featured in an episode of ‘Father Knows Best’ while they were celebrating Thanksgiving with a meal of hamburgers .