Once again I proved one of my basic beliefs: Don’t ever throw anything out. If you do, you’ll need it. Sure enough, last night I wished for all those empty Cool-Whip containers and butter tubs I tossed when I was on a cleaning jag this week.
I had been cleaning because my daughter’s family and a friend of hers were coming to our house on Thursday for Thanksgiving dinner. I know. Thanksgiving for me was supposed to be at Nanny’s on Saturday. It still is. Tomorrow at 2:00 we’ll pack up our trusty Honda and drive an hour to have turkey and all the trimmings again. Well, at least the trimmings. Our turkey yesterday wasn’t a turkey. My daughter had been given some chickens. When our plans changed to include a Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving day at our house, my daughter said don’t worry about buying a turkey. She’s bring a chicken.
I did a head count. There would be eight of us. “Are you sure one chicken will be enough?”
“For eight people?” she asked. “Sure.”
Okay, I thought. My husband wouldn’t be eating chicken. I’d have one piece. The six-year-old didn’t eat much. Maybe one chicken would be enough. At least, there wouldn’t be left-overs.
The eight people ended up being six. The oldest grandchild spent the day with her boyfriend’s family. The young woman and 3-year-old my daughter planned to bring for supper didn’t come with her, but another friend did. I’m not sure if he was our daughter’s date or the 6 year-old’s play buddy. He moved back and forth between playing computer games with the kindergartener and joining my husband in front of the TV to watch the Cowboys’ and Ravens’ games.
When my daughter called at 2:00 yesterday to say they’d be here early, I was glad I cleaned before I cooked. I could always tear open the Stove Top box and open the jar of turkey gravy after she got here.
When she called at 3:00 to say they might be a little longer, they had to bury the cat, I was a little relieved. I mean, I was sad for the kids about the family pet, but I still had time to mop the bathroom floor.
When they got here at 4:30, we took the green bean casserole and the sweet potato casserole out of the oven so I could put her chicken in. I was surprised the chicken was still in the plastic wrapper. I probably misunderstood. I thought she told me when she called earlier she was going to take the chicken out of the oven and finish cooking it here.
I was also surprised the chicken wasn’t a chicken but an 8-pound roaster. “It’ll only take about an hour to cook,” my daughter said. I read the instructions on the package. For 6-8 pounds, bake 2 to 2 ½ hours at 350 degrees. My math skills kicked in. Our 5:00 meal wouldn’t be ready until 6:30 or 7:00.
When we finally sat down, all six of us, I realized I had way too much food. I cooked sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, dressing and gravy, and Uncle Bubba’s famous sweet pickles to go with our 8-pound chicken. I forgot to cook the spinach. My husband had cut up a fresh pineapple. I opened a can of Hoppin’ John beans for him for protein and a can of cranberry sauce. My daughter’s friend brought along two large pans of mac and cheese. We barely made a dent in one of them. And then there were pies.
I sent all the left-overs home with my daughter except for a single serving of sweet potato casserole and a healthy side of pickles. The bird and the dressing went home with her in zip-lock bags since I was fresh out of butter tubs.
Before they left, the grandkids gave us, at their mother’s prompting, a list of seven things each they were thankful for. I had my own list, some of which I didn’t care to share. I’m thankful I got my house clean. It looks nice and will for a minute or two until life happens. Hot and cold running water gets a daily Thank-you, God. I feel like a grunge if I can’t wash my hair on a daily basis. I’m also thankful for my eyesight, a husband with the patience of Job, and the fact that I don’t have to rule the world. I’m not very good at managing my small part of the universe. Since I feel so much better, I’m thankful for our new diet. I really have lost the taste for meat and for sugar. And finally, I am thankful we didn’t cook two “chickens.” I’d never live that down with my daughter.
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Here it is, 7:30 a.m. Friday after Thanksgiving. Although I’ve only been shopping once on Black Friday—I think it was 2008—and there’s absolutely nothing I want or need, the sound of cars whizzing by our house in pursuit of the perfect gift calls to me. Come buy. Come shop. Bring cash or plastic.
I have all day and nothing to clean and no visiting grandchildren. Maybe I’ll take a quick shower and hit the road. Who doesn’t like a good sale? Besides, isn’t it my patriotic duty to support the economy?
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