From G's to Chefs - Feeling Thankful

You know what I love about cooking?  Well, there are a lot of things I love about it, some of which I’ve mentioned before, but here’s a big one.  Anyone who cooks, from a lowly engineer/blogger/wannabe cook to the most respected and admired star chef, can tell you exactly how they came to fall in love with cooking (full disclosure: I just made that up, but you’d have to think it’s true).  It can be rather vague; for instance the author of my latest cookbook simply points to growing up in a home where her mother cooked all the time, and being around the pleasant aromas and tastes during her childhood.  For others, it can be incredibly specific, and they can point to one key memory that led them down the path to where they are today.  Others like me.

As a quick aside, I should note that I don’t feel that this phenomenon is innate to cooking.  My wife loves to knit and crochet, and I have heard some of her fond memories of crocheting that led to her rekindled interest in that area.  Since knitters are the largest demographic of my readership, I wouldn’t want them to think that I felt in any way superior with my love for cooking, since I’m sure they share these feelings for their chosen art.  But contrast either of those activities with my day job; if someone asked me how I fell in love with engineering, I’d probably strangle them (j/k, and though it pains me to admit it, I do have a story for that question).

Today’s story, appropriately enough, centers on Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving Day is one of my two favorite days of the year (the other being Christmas Eve, but that’s for another time), and I have many fond memories of Thanksgivings over the years.  Early on, it was just about playing and eating – mild years meant we could play outside while Mom and Dad cooked, or else we’d just keep ourselves busy upstairs until dinner was served.  A few years later, I remember munching on the pre-dinner snacks while watching football with my Dad.  But the real significant events didn’t start to take place until my early teen years.

By this time, I had begun to realize that simply keeping out of the way wasn’t really helping enough.  So I asked my Mom if there was anything I could do to help out.  It started small: setting out a bowl of ripe olives for people to nibble on before dinner.  The next time I asked, I was given the responsibility of making the Stove Top stuffing (boil water, add bread crumbs, and stir).  I did a little bit more each time, and before you knew it, there I was assisting my Mom and Dad with almost every step of the dinner.  I wasn’t really in charge of anything, but I was there ready to stir this, chop that, or hold this for a moment, would you?  I became the Thanksgiving Day sous chef.

With six members of the family, there was always a lot of food, so I’m sure the help was appreciated, but in a relatively small kitchen, things tended to get crowded.  And for a Thanksgiving dinner, everything has to be ready at the same time.  So that meant we’d cook little by little over the course of the day, gaining momentum and dishes until we hit critical mass, sometime around 4:00.  It was like someone suddenly hit the fast-forward button and all of a sudden we had to untent-the-turkey-drain-the-potatoes-grab-the-green-bean-casserole-quick-open-the-cranberry-sauce-check-the-turkey-temperature-fluff-up-the-stuffing-oh-my-gosh-we-forgot-to-pull-out-the-sweet-potatoes-ok-they-look-fine-mash-the-potatoes-stir-the-gravy-or-it’s-going-to-stick-ok-let’s-get-this-turkey-on-the-platter-someone-pour-the-wine-and-let’s-eat!

Somehow, every year, six hours of careful planning and staging culminated in a whirlwind 15 minutes of chaos that resulted in rushing here and there, frantically pulling things together into a phenomenal and always perfectly executed meal.  I know my Mom hates this part of the holidays and especially Thanksgiving, but here’s the thing.  I LOVED it.  The energy in the air, the feeling of excitement and anxiety as we flitted from one pot to another, stirring, slicing, serving, multiple timers blaring as we went, was the most fun part of the day.  I can close my eyes and picture our little kitchen, nowhere near big enough for three people moving amongst one another, all working on different parts of the final meal, and I can’t help but smile.

I never paid much attention to it at the time, but I absolutely loved the Thanksgiving panic every year.  Granted, I don’t get to experience that same feeling all that often when I cook at home, but there are occasions.  Sometimes I decide it would be nice to have dinner waiting for Stacia when she gets home, and start out deliberately so things will be done at just the right moment.  Yet somehow in the last 15 minutes I end up with three different pans going, stirring a sauce while I try to dish up the main course, and it’s almost like a mini-Thanksgiving rush.  I don’t think anyone who knows me would call me an adrenaline junkie, but the final act in cooking a meal sure does it for me.

To be fully honest, I don’t know what year it was when I first helped in the chaos of the Thanksgiving kitchen, so I can’t put a specific date on the event that made me fall in love with cooking.  But I have the scene memorized precisely from years of repeating, every time just a little different, but with the same energy and excitement.  That’s when I knew I loved cooking, and any time I feel it again, it’s like seeing an old friend after time apart.  Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and I’m planning to see that friend once more.  I can’t wait.