Edible Memoir

Sluggish doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt going into this holiday season. Autumnal weather, riding high off of Halloween, and the knowledge that the most magical time of year is just around the corner, usually fills me with insurmountable joy. However, I was less than joyful and less than thankful this turkey day.

November is a month packed with significance, Día de los Muertos, Veterans Day, Native American Heritage Month, Thanksgiving, my birthday, and this year, the Presidential election (which happens every 4 years and hopefully that Amendment is still standing 4 years from now). Let me repeat that, my birthday and the most heinous and consequential election occurred this month. It’s either the end of times or a ridiculous confluence of shifting timelines, or both. Either way, November’s grand total leans heavily into the nihilistic and resulted in a completely wonky thanksgiving this year.

And as if the universe needed to add insult to injury, kudos to the fridge for deciding to die on me a week before Thanksgiving.

I’ve cooked, (which is generous speak for — I have helped cook) thanksgiving a few times in my life, one turkey was left in the oven, one was cooked outside, and none of the above were served on time. And despite past fiascos, I felt it was due time I spearheaded the whole shindig this year. Months ago, I volunteered to cook Thanksgiving. I volunteered well before the election results because I had high hopes the country could pull its head out of its own stuffing-filled derrière and finally vote a woman into office. But no, women were once again shoved back into the proverbial kitchen. The sandwich was promptly plopped back into our over-qualified hands. And I can’t stand this kind of language.

Domestic kitchens are filled with the warmth and knowledge of women past and present. Generations of women have toiled over fires, sweat over stovetops, and carried entire households on their backs with not a whisper of gratitude. According to the patriarchy, a women’s role is in the kitchen, not in a way that praises the wisdom of generations of women, but in a way that suggests women only belong in domestic situations. They want you to believe that women only belong in domestic situations and that anything outside of the domicile is out of their purview, and everything inside the domicile is inferior. I’m tired of this narrative. The kitchen deserves better, it is the heart of any house.

For years I have given my kitchen sweat, blood, and tears all without realizing that I was reclaiming and subverting the derogatory language used to diminish said domestic labor. Yes, I hosted and cooked Thanksgiving this year. Talk about turning the definition on its head, taking back the kitchen, as it’s been the domain of women for centuries before me, it’s a badge of honor. Funnily enough, I didn’t actually make the Turkey at all. We divvied the workload among family and friends and I signed up for all of the sides. And yes, every dish was cooked by a woman. Every dish was cooked by a woman, because in my circle of people, the best cooks are the women, have always been the women, and will continue to be the women. In society, most women fulfill these thankless roles in family units, reluctantly, forcibly, and/or by default. I, on the other hand, chose to be a cook in my family. I chose this despite a childhood of forced dinner prep and dishwashing labour all while the boys did anything else but help. My youth was littered with unspoken rules and a constant reminder to be quiet.

I’m tired of the boxes and of the ceilings. The red tape is copied, cut, and pasted into every aspect of our lives. I’m tired of the name calling. If you’re a woman in sports — you can’t be too masculine. If you’re a woman in corporate — you can’t be ambitious, without being called aggressive, bitch, or cold. If you’re a single woman — you’re a spinster. And if you’re a woman in politics — if you try to occupy the most important role in government and change things, you’re a dummy, mentally impaired, low IQ, lazy, slow, and incompetent.

Ladies, it’s past time to get loud and nasty. Since burgeoning out of my nascency, I make sure to always question and to never stay quiet. I embrace the name-calling of my bullies. And I loudly reclaimed a love language of my people, cooking. It’s time to rewrite the narrative. In the face of an eternity of roadblocks, boxes, and ceilings, it’s time to take up space; to be loud and to be insufferable. There is never futility in trying because you never know who you may inspire. Thank you Kamala Harris for picking up the torch and blazing the trail a little bit further, for expanding the box, and for cracking the ceiling. Thank you for disregarding the naysayers and bullies.

Thanksgiving is apparently supposed to be the holiday of gratitude and family, and because I was feeling a little less thankful and less family oriented this year, cooking a meal for more people than I own chairs seemed fruitless and draining. I’m a firm believer that one simply cannot cook a good meal if they themselves are not in a giving mood, giving of time, giving of services, or giving of love. One of the many issues I’ve grappled with since November 5th, is how much I want to give of myself when the world just wants to take, take, take.

You know what will ruin a perfectly good Thanksgiving meal? Me and politics. Thanksgiving didn’t seem like the time and place to dredge up election woes, so while talking about politics was not off the table, deliberately inviting discord to the table was not something I wished to begin the holiday season. And since November has been a veritably endless shit-show, it has been difficult to see or talk to anyone who didn’t vote blue down the ticket. Therefore, those of the maga variety were not welcome at the dinner table this year. And I’m not saying that I’m not willing to listen, because trust me, I am. I was forced to listen to my father spew maga brainwash on the phone for over an hour — I’m capable of listening, digesting, and arguing right back. What I can’t stand is someone unable to proclaim their stance and defend it. If you cannot proudly and clearly elucidate to others why you voted one way or another, then no thank you. Discourse is always welcome in my house, silence is not.

Not to mention, the Friday after Thanksgiving, more commonly known as Friendsgiving, is actually a National Holiday to commemorate Native Americans. This National Holiday is but a crumb, a meager scrap of respect that America deigned to give Native Americans as part of quiet reparations. Every calendar year, Thanksgiving rolls around with its false history adding insult to injury. According to a fictional story, Pilgrims and Native Americans had a pleasant picnic somewhere near Plymouth, where a feast was prepared and goods were shared. As wonderful as that fairytale story sounds, reality is a crueler teacher. This country was not discovered and the Europeans were not curious. Europeans were greedy and violent and they took it upon themselves to declare ownership of the land under prima facie, leading to a race war still battled today. Ownership of land leads to fences, which in turn leads to boundaries, and eventually to borders. Since the treaty of Westphalia in 1648, people have murdered other people under the guise of pride of country and nationalism. If only those who signed the treaty could have understood the dangers borders would pose in the 21st century. Isolation and paranoia about your neighbor has never ended well for humans. As we enter this new era under Trump, we must refrain ourselves from selfishness, because the only way forward is together.

Overall I had a lovely time with family and friends, but this season has felt generally empty of gratitude. It wasn’t a completely thankless Thanksgiving, I was lucky to have family fly up from California to break bread with me. My house, table, and heart were full today. As we wait for what tomorrow brings us, I shall remain resolute and stalwart in the progress of feminine power. I am thankful for the ability to rebel and the existence of strong women to guide us forward.

Below are the dishes created and consumed.

Edible Elements

• Crescent Roll Buns – Bacon, brie, and cranberry sauce baked in a rolled up crescent roll
• Sour Cream and Onion Dip – my mother’s specialty, you’ll have to ask her
• Cheese and Fruit Platter – sliced cheese, a selection of fruit, crackers, and an assortment of nuts (the truffle almonds were a particular favorite)
• Green Bean Casserole – half from scratch and half from a can
• Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes – I’m intolerant but I had to make it so it could be a boat for the gravy on everyone else’s plate
• Sage Stuffing – never made stuffing before, would highly recommend
• Macaroni and Cheese – not pictured and not eaten because the gluten over-glutenized and it was a gelatinous mess
• Roasted Sweet Potatoes and Brussel Sprouts – some much needed fiber on an otherwise carbo-licious plate
• Fresh Salad – with goat cheese cheese, golden raisins, apples, and a homemade balsamic vinaigrette dressing
• Turkey & Gravy – again, not my doing, but the Turkey was spatchcocked and slathered in an herb butter
• Cranberry Sauce – homemade by a family friend
• Bread Pudding – one of my all time favorite desserts and a certain specialty of mine
• Pumpkin Pie for Dessert – I cheated and bought a pie from a local bakery, Macrina Bakery, 10/10 would highly recommend