Phasing in the Holidays

One of the things that come with age (make that experience) is the realization that celebrating the holidays comes in phases.

Phase one started in the early years of my marriage. I call it the phase of neurotic perfectionism. I thought hosting Thanksgiving gave me the chance to be taken seriously: “By golly, I’m grown up. See, I’m hosting Thanksgiving.” My table had little paper turkeys with fluted paper tails. My salad was jelled into a circle with fruit shapes formed out of the white, sour cream topping. My candles were a subtle shade of pumpkin. Dessert was chocolate cups filled with mousse. In other words, I fussed for days. It never turned out quite as I expected though. In an Italian family with long memories, someone would drag out some past injustice, one of the babies would mash potatoes into the tablecloth, and the dog would throw up loudly and usually right under the table.

By the time I had my own family, phase two began. I call this the game of dodge and weave. People grew wary around August. “Who’s doing Thanksgiving this year?” No one was in a rush to volunteer. We all had families and jobs and while there was no question we would get together, who was going to do it was another matter. Excuses were offered. Suggestions were made. Why not have it at a restaurant? The matriarch of the family opposed that on the grounds that she’d done it for so many years, surely one of us could do it for her. Guilt was ladled on like curdled cream. Finally, offers were cautiously made. Someone would do the turkey if someone else would do whatever. The menu was built by committee. This went on for many years while the children grew up.

Then came phase three, what I call minimalism. By then the kids had all left for college or moved away to new lives. Families became reduced to two people with the occasional visit. For a time the family still potlucked the dinner, but the clean-up was what did it in. No one wanted to take that on. The family contented itself thereafter with phone calls. My husband and I never resorted to turkey TV dinners, but we got close. Neither of us could eat the rich foods anymore. Between indigestion and cholesterol, our bodies simply didn’t work the same way. At the supermarket, while others eagerly chose their turkeys, we stood comparing the fat and sodium ratings between turkey breast and turkey roll. That choice made, we threw a box of instant mashed potatoes into the cart along with a pre-cut bag of salad greens, non-fat dressing, and reduced fat ice cream. It was all right. We got by.

Bur recently things have changed yet again. It began at the supermarket the other day. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving,” the checkout clerk burbled at us as we collected our groceries. I felt myself form a slight snarl at her cheeriness. It was all very well for her: she hadn’t walked down the gridlock of the shopping carts that people had thoughtfully left parked in the middle of the aisles or selected from among the picked over veggies in the grocery section. My silent snarl convinced me that I had entered the dread final phase: the “I’m in a rotten mood, so this must be the holiday season” phase.

I’d been told to expect this, but I hadn’t thought I would ever really stop thinking with nostalgia about small children, fluted paper turkeys, and pumpkin candles. Well, I have. And—worse—I realize that it’s not just Thanksgiving. I have an overwhelming urge to send my ceramic pumpkin, harvest placemats, outside icicle lights, and lawn reindeer to the thrift shop. I might as well. I know right now there is no force on earth that will send me up the tree in front to string holiday lights. I shudder at the thought of crowds and tired children and endless tinny carols in the stores. I feel I’ve done my time. I’m impatient. I no longer suffer well. I’m not willing to tramp my tired feet through the stores anymore. I have become the grinch.

This doesn’t mean I won’t do Thanksgiving dinner ever again. We have ten coming for dinner this year. There will not be paper turkeys or pumpkin candles, but there will be the usual overeating and the genuine pleasure of seeing family and friends. Sid will help with the cleanup and the house will smell for days of turkey. Oh the joys of the season. What it does mean, though, is that I am going to have a very stiff brandy and egg nog before I start cooking and probably a glass of wine with my meal. It also means that I will not be at Wal Mart at 5:00 a.m. next day ready to trample people for bargains. Instead, I’ll be dropping stuff off at the Salvation Army.