Every Thanksgiving, I stare at my kitchen, a mix of mild guilt and quiet amusement bubbling inside me. This kitchen came with the house— sparkly appliances, spacious counters, and more cabinets than I’ll ever fill. It’s a place brimming with possibility, but let’s be honest: cooking for a small crowd, even my husband, is hardly my idea of fun. I can cook—my dad was a chef, and my mom baked pies and cakes like her life depended on it— but with a guest list that fits at one table, I often wonder, why bother?
My husband will laugh if he hears me grumbling about Thanksgiving prep. He knows I have the skills, but he also knows I’d much rather tell a story about the pumpkin pie than make it myself. Still, Thanksgiving calls for effort— especially when your family legacy is tied to the kitchen. Now, if my utensils could talk, they’d be doing cartwheels at the mere idea of a holiday meal. Those poor things sit untouched most of the year, silently longing for the days when someone besides me might give them purpose. I can imagine them gathering like a committee at the start of Thanksgiving morning: The skillet would clear its throat dramatically. “Thanksgiving is our Super Bowl, folks. Let’s be ready!”
The roasting pan, shrouded in dust from its top-shelf exile, would sigh. “I’ll believe it when I see it. She’s been talking about roasting a turkey for five years now.”
