Notes from Maine - 2024/11/17
It’s a gray day outside, but I have no plans to go out. Tomorrow we’ll have a big party here, so today is all about last-minute preparation. We’re moving around tables, digging big casserole dishes out of the back of the storage closet, and trying to keep the place reasonably tidy during the process. Mom keeps pulling out the dry mop when she uncovers a neglected corner. Every time I find the mop loitering in the laundry room, I put it back in its hiding place. Eventually, one of us will give up.
This party has been going on since before I bought this house. A week or two before Thanksgiving, a group of friends get together for a sit-down dinner before retreating back to their biological families for the “real” holiday. When I bought this house, Chip was looking for a change so he moved in for a while. The party came with him from its roots in an apartment in Portland, up to this house. Those first few events were wild. When Amy and Chip got married, Amy put an end to any activity that began with us chanting, “Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip!” If a group chants his name, they can get him to do almost anything—leap over a bonfire, try to lift the back half of a tractor, or drink a gallon of milk in under a minute. I try to control myself, but I was the one who walked across the hot coals one year. Once enough people got married and had children, the party grew much more tame. The havoc died down before anyone got seriously hurt. We can all be thankful for that.
In the morning, I expect Erin will show up first. When I stopped eating meat, Erin stepped into the role of preparing the turkeys. On the best years, the job requires more planning than finesse. There are only two possible outcomes that I’m aware of: failure, and unremarkable. Some people will make a point of saying how good it is, but they always seem like the sort of people who would tell you it was good regardless. We’ve had stuffed turkey, unstuffed turkey, roast turkey, broiled turkey, spatchcocked turkey, fried turkey, turducken, and Hawaiian-cooker turkey. They’re all roughly equivalent, with the exception of spatchcock. Don’t even utter “spatchcock” in the kitchen, unless you want to get a look so dirty that you’ll have to run the dishwasher again.
Once the turkeys are in the oven, a few other early birds will arrive to stand around and chat. People who come in this liminal time typically arrive with fully-realized food contributions. Their dish will be covered, the food ready-to-eat, and their name will be on the bottom of the container so they can get it back at the end of the party. It’s the late arrivals who typically show up with the most to do. They’ll have a bag with cans and boxes of supplies, and they need some counter and oven space in order to complete their side dish. Before the meal, Chip and Amy are two mini-tornadoes, preparing a mountain of hors d'oeuvres, squash, peas, and carrots. In the history of the party, we’ve never run out of any of the basic food items. Even during the great gravy skirmish of 2015, there was always enough to go around.
No matter how many plates we set out, we will always run low. People refuse to use the plates with the gold rim from my grandmother. They’re too fancy looking, and nobody would dare put them in the dishwasher. Fortunately, Chip will have a big plastic bin with more plates and, tragically, more silverware. Even before my silverware is exhausted, someone will dip into the fresh supply for a fork. Someone else will get really, steaming mad because now the silverware will have to be meticulously sorted out. That “steaming mad” person is me, by the way. Chip & Amy have some silverware that almost looks like mine, but it’s not. Before they go, I’ll have to stare at each stupid spoon and fork to be sure if it should stay or go. Drives me nuts. The same people who laugh at me for my silverware obsession are the ones who can’t be trusted to not get mad if you laugh at them for something else. I’ve said too much.
Before I’ve finished eating (maybe before I’ve started), someone will step into the role of Wash Martyr. They’ll dedicate themselves to loading the dishwasher and scrubbing pots and pans, and sweating. By this time, the windows will have been opened and closed at least a dozen times. For each person sweating, there will be at least one shivering. The furnace will run nonstop either way.
I usually fill up on crackers, chips, and cornbread long before I’m putting real food on a plate. I’m never hungry enough to enjoy the hot food. I just make up a plate so I can chat over it. Stories are recounted—many I’ve heard before—but there are always interesting new discussions on the air. I try to collect one or two gems to share. I don’t have anything really interesting to discuss this time. It has been a beast of a year so far. I’ve just moved from one crisis or deadline to the next. It’s all still too close to be rehashed yet. I need perspective, and I think that will only come this winter when I have time to breathe.
I better go move some more stuff around. Then I have to clean the bathrooms. We’re not expecting a ton of people this year, but I think I’ll put an extra table in the living room just in case. The biggest crowd was about fifty people. The smallest was just a dozen or so. It will be fun either way, I’m sure. Next week I’ll be back to trying to move the kitchen forward. Today, I’m just going to focus on making it reasonably functional.
