Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Lancaster, Jen (read more books .txt) đ
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And the barsâdonât start me on the bars. Thereâs a make-your-own trail mix bar, a choose-your-own seafood bar, a decant-your-own honey bar, a mix-and-match cookie bar, and a hot food bar with enough variety to satisfy everyone from the most humorless vegan to the worldâs biggest carnivore. [Which is the Southern Elephant Seal. (I looked it up.)] One day I stopped by early after a dentist appointment and I stumbled across the breakfast bar, complete with biscuits and gravy. So magnificent was the sight that I wept a little.
When other grocery stores dream of an afterlife, this is what they picture, with twenty kinds of fresh gelato and sorbet made daily and cheese sellers who say, âHmm, I havenât tasted that particular tomme de chĂšvre, eitherâletâs open it up and sample it together!â
Through the confluence of unbelievably fresh product, a little training, and finally owning some decent equipment, Iâve come to love cooking. Turns out Iâm fearless in the kitchen and Fletch is constantly delighted by the dishes I make. Yeah, thereâs an occasional misstepâcandy apple pork chops, Iâm looking at youâbut Iâve found real Zen at the bottom of my enamel cast-iron pot.
In fact, last year Fletch and I tackled our first fully blown, fancy-set-table, official Thanksgiving dinner as our attempt to create a new holiday tradition. In the past weâd gotten together with family, but as our relationship became increasingly strained, [Read: certain members became bat-shittier.] we thought weâd be a lot happier on our own and this was our first go of it.
Our menu was outstanding and Iâm not sure what the best part was. The prosciutto-wrapped asparagus was the perfect blend of crisp and salty and the creamed pearl onions made me want to bury my face in the chafing dish and go at them feeding-trough-style.
But as Fletch and I sat there at our grown-up table in our first real dining roomâwith a chandelier and everything!âeating a wonderful meal and drinking out of proper wineglasses, the venture into new traditions felt like a waste of time. I spent two days in the kitchen and we finished stuffing ourselves in about twenty minutes. The end result, although delicious, wasnât worth the effort and felt like a huge letdown.
Our other Thanksgiving option, going out to dinner alone, feels equally depressing, so we decided that our new new tradition is full-on denial.
I tell Stacey, âWeâre just going to be all, âThanksgiving? Sorry, I think you dialed the wrong number.ââ
Stacey keeps stealing confused glances at me while she drives. âLet me get this straightâyou plan to ignore Thanksgiving?â
âExactly.â
âHoney, denial is not a strategy.â
âPfft. Denial is absolutely a strategy, particularly for the kind of holidays that depress you. For example, how did you celebrate Valentineâs Day last year?â
Staceyâs lips get all scrunchy, and her voice is clipped. âI donât remember.â
âSee? Denial. Works like a charm. [Please donât worry about Stacey. When this happened, she was about four days away from meeting the man of her dreams. They got married in May 2011, and he gives her the best Valentineâs Days anyone could possibly imagine. Iâm talking diamonds, champagne, and poetry. He treats her like the (bossy) goddess she is] Can you blame me for not wanting to recognize the day because it bums me out? All holidays do. Always have. Iâve hated the time period between my birthday in November and January second since I was a kid because, without fail, every single holiday devolved into big-time family chaos.â
âHow so?â Stacey gets distressed when I bring up familial insanity, likely because she comes from a functional family where everyone not only loves each other, but actually likes one another, too. No one tells anyone else theyâre fat and no one gets into a screaming match over using too much hot water, nor does anyone continue to hold a grudge about shit that happened in 1976.
Itâs so weird.
âGive me a specific,â she prompts.
âLetâs see⊠well, every year like clockwork my mother would try to punish my father because he liked being home for the holiday instead of driving seventeen hours in the snow each way over a weekend so she could be with her extended family, none of whom he liked, so that was fun.â
âThatâs it?â
I roll my eyes. âOh, please. Weâd spend the week leading up to the holiday dealing with her sulking and pouting and Iâd be all, âWhat are you, fifty?â Then the actual day of Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter would roll around and sheâd freak out because she spent so much time pouting and sulking that sheâd be entirely off schedule in creating the meal. And despite having help from me, my dad, and later my sister-in-law, dinner wouldnât be ready until ten p.m. and sheâd be mad at us for complaining that we were hungry. Of course, sheâd sabotage a situation already made super-tense due to starvation by unilaterally deciding madness like, âIâm going to make this a fat-free Thanksgiving!ââ
Stacey blanches. âThat is a crime against humanity.â
âRight? Plus, she believed that we should be all Norman Rockwellây and, like, sit around in candlelight and listen to carols, and you know what? Thatâs a lovely thought and we should pencil that in. But when everyoneâs gathered in the family room and weâre all quietly enjoying each otherâs company for once by hanging out and watching the James Bond marathon on TBS, that is not the time to yank the television cord out of the wall and demand we share our feeeeelings. Because we feeeeel? Like watching Goldfinger.â
Stacey laughs and says, âThat canât possibly be true,â while I nod emphatically. We arrive at WFM and find a cherry parking spot on the second floor next to the door. We exit the car and enter the store, taking the long escalator that dumps out right by the bar. âNeed to cocktail up before you finish the story?â
âYes, but I wonât. Oh, and this totally
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