Let me start by saying my partner, Jake, is a truly awful driver. He’s the kind that gets distracted by everything—the birds in the sky, that tempting yard sale, or the radio dial. Meanwhile, I’m in the passenger seat, channeling my inner drill sergeant with commands like, “Focus on the road! Watch the lane! Don’t hit that mailbox!”
Before I had a family, cooking was the last thing on my mind. My culinary expertise revolved around takeout menus. So, it was only a matter of time before I found myself in the kitchen, with Jake on the sidelines, nagging me to “Pay Attention!”
Last Thanksgiving, I convinced Jake that we should host the holiday at home so I could fulfill my dream of a picture-perfect family gathering. I envisioned waking up early to prepare a grand feast, complete with an apron and pearls, sipping wine while baking pies, and sharing my secret to the perfect candied yams with anyone who dared to enter my kitchen.
Fueled by the optimism of having Martha Stewart and Pinterest at my disposal, I dug into old issues of Martha’s Thanksgiving guides and scoured Pinterest for recipes. With a bottle of wine in hand, I pinned away, convinced I had crafted the ultimate menu.
Fast forward to the day before Thanksgiving, and after spending $389, I realized I had no clue what I was doing. What would Martha do? Pour a glass of wine and dive into the simple stuff, right?
I plopped a can of cranberry sauce into a fancy bowl, thrilled with my progress—until Jake chimed in. “Did you start the pies? Where’s the turkey?”
“Hold on!” I shot back, “I made cranberry sauce!”
“It can wait,” he replied, rolling his eyes.
Six hours later, I had burned two pies and mistakenly added salt instead of sugar to the pumpkin bread, a mishap we wouldn’t discover until the next day.
Thanksgiving arrived, and I was determined to prove Jake wrong. My alarm went off at 4:30 AM, but I kept hitting snooze until I finally jolted awake at 8:45 AM. Panic set in as I realized the turkey was still frozen. Cue the lukewarm bath to thaw the bird, while I poured myself another glass of wine and prayed for a miracle.
“Did you forget to thaw the turkey?” Jake asked, knowing full well I had.
“Shut up and drink your coffee!” I snapped back.
By 10:31 AM, the turkey was floating in the bathtub, and I deemed it “thawed enough.” I followed Pinterest’s instructions to prep the bird, slathering it with butter and seasoning before shoving it in the oven. Jake, sensing my chaos, offered to help with the stuffing and gravy. “You know you have to cook the sausage first, right? What, are you trying to kill us?”
The clock struck noon, and I belatedly realized I had forgotten lunch. The oven was still off. I turned it on, hoping for the best. As I shoved the turkey in, I figured no one would notice if it was still a bit frozen inside.
Spoiler alert: they did notice. Dinner was served five hours late. The turkey was burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. I passed it off as “Cajun style” and watched Jake suppress a laugh.
Next year, we’re celebrating at my in-laws’ place, and you have my word on that!
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Summary
Jenna recounts her disastrous Thanksgiving cooking experience and the chaos that ensued while trying to impress her husband, Jake. Despite her aspirations of a perfect holiday, her lack of cooking skills led to a burnt turkey and a promise to celebrate at her in-laws’ next year.