Our first hosted Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t nearly the chaotic catastrophe I had envisioned. The turkey was done with plenty of time to spare, the stuffing was delicious and inhaled. A few other dishes didn’t turn out quite like I had hoped, but nothing was disastrous.
We even managed to keep our good humor in check. For the most part. Strangely, our one argument throughout the day involved the cranberries. Not a recipe regarding fresh cranberries, because that might make a little more sense. No, my family is the simple sort who prefers the canned variety. We weren’t even adding anything extra to it. In fact, I don’t even like cranberries.
No, we argued on how to present the cranberries. And it wasn’t really an argument, it was a “this is my way” “well, I don’t like your way”, kind of thing.
Maturity, people. We own it in abundance.
J believes that once free from the can, the cylindrical cranberry gelatin should be sliced into wobbly circles. I didn’t realize this. My mom never sliced hers; she simply opened a can, put it in a bowl, smushed it up. Voila! Thanksgiving side dish staple at it’s finest. I was even laughing at how ridiculously lazy the whole thing was. That’s when I began to smush. And J began to wrinkle his nose.
You’re kidding me, right? I’m storming out of the room over cranberries? I DON’T EVEN LIKE CRANBERRIES. Stupid cranberries.
Other than that, dinner went off without a hitch. I wish we had a bigger table, but we managed. Our pleasantries returned, the food was good, conversations were loud, and the bowl of smushed cranberries was heartily devoured.