When It Isn’t Working, Flip the Bird

Thanksgiving is around the corner—a time for pumpkin pie, laughter, and cherished holiday traditions. For many years, those traditions revolved around the four of us: my husband and our two daughters. But as they’ve grown, moved off to college, and started lives of their own, our family rhythms have shifted. Thanksgiving, however, still holds a grip on me, its weight full with memories and expectations.

When the girls were little, I felt enormous pressure to make the day special, to create holiday memories that would last their lifetime. After all, this was their childhood, and naturally, I was its orchestrator.? With no extended family nearby to blend into our celebration, everything required careful planning. The result? A day anchored by what else—an elaborate Thanksgiving meal.

Here’s something you should know about me, though: I don’t really like cooking. I can cook. I’ve made hundreds of meals, from scratch, and I’ve done it decently. But I don’t enjoy it. Not one bit. Somewhere along the way—probably somewhere after meal 5,000—I started to resent it. For over two decades, I’ve been responsible for food in our household. Grocery shopping, meal planning, navigating food allergies, accommodating preferences— and it seemed like a fair division of labor given our partnership.

After all, it required being physically close to the table to actually put the food on it, and I was privileged to be around home in those years when the girls were young.

I leaned into the role, making sure our family always had the healthiest, freshest, most balanced meals. No processed snacks in this house, definitely no high fructose corn syrup and white flour was verboten. I took my ingredients seriously—whole grains, fresh vegetables, organic everything. Our grocery cart was a shrine to nutrition, and I didn’t mind standing in a long check-out line so other shoppers could take notice of it.?

And it wasn’t for lack of trying to enjoy the process. Over the years, I’ve acquired all the things meant to make cooking fun—a Le Creuset dutch oven, a high-speed Vitamix, All-Clad in every shape and size, as well as an immersion blender I’m not entirely sure what to do with.? Oh, and a KitchenAid mixer spiralizer attachment that’s still in the box because, again, I’m not quite sure what real food needs to be treated like that.

None of it worked. Cooking just wasn’t my thing. But it was my job, my contribution to this union, and I took pride in doing it well.

Thanksgiving, though, remains sacred. Our tradition is steeped in the ritual of the meal, and it goes something like this:

The night before, I bake the pies and leave them to cool on the counter. In the morning, I take the prepped turkey out of the fridge, gently and thoroughly rub it with fresh organic herbs and high quality EVOO, getting it in the oven pronto. The wedding china, Waterford goblets, and my grandmother’s pie stand come out, along with pressed linen napkins and sterling napkin rings engraved “AR”, the initials for everyone in our family. The potatoes get peeled, the vegetables chopped and diced, the onions browned. I run the first of three dishwasher loads of the day. I baste like no one has basted before or since. I refuse help—not because it isn’t offered, but because it’s just easier to do it all myself.

As the final moments build to a climax, all the timers go off at once—beeping and chiming in dissonant rhythm.? The gravy boils over slightly, but no problem, I got this.? It takes more than a little burnt gravy to rattle me when I am in the midst of such a performance. I uncork the Beaujolais Nouveau, and everything is timed perfectly. Food is hot, plated, and ready.

Voila! (And five hours later) Dinner is served.

We sit down to eat, say a quick prayer, and my mind skips to the dishes waiting in the sink. The turkey is dry. I count the calories in the mashed potatoes and ponder how I’ll burn them off in tomorrow’s workout. (Pie?? “No, thank you.”)? We go around the table sharing what we are thankful for, and in those moments, my heart swells with appreciation and love, and all of this effort pays dividends. Check the box; memories have been made and it only took 31 minutes.

And then, it’s time to reverse everything: clear the table, scrape plates, load the dishwasher, again. My husband steps in as the designated Hand Washer of Things, carefully handling the wedding china and Waterford while I put leftovers away, vacuum under the table, and start a load of laundry. Taking out the recycling, I realize tomorrow is Black Friday—which means there’s less than thirty-some days until Christmas, when I can repeat all of this fun.

Finally, I kick the dog off my chair, collapse into it, and wonder where the girls have gone. Upstairs to their rooms, no doubt—they’ve had their fill of the day, and I can’t really blame them. I sit there, drained, and ask myself:

Was it fun? Was it fun for anyone?

And the truth is this: the resentment is as thick as the smoke from the burnt gravy.

Clearly, this isn’t working.

Before you judge me for my shitty attitude, you’ll need to get in line, and it’s a long one. But I know where I am. I’m way, way below the line, drawn into the seductive pull of the drama triangle.

For those of you who may not know what the drama triangle is, it’s a framework often used to describe negative thinking patterns in relationships, especially the relationship to our Self. In the triangle, people shift between three roles: Villain, Hero, and Victim. The Villain blames, the Hero tries to fix, and the Victim feels powerless. It’s a never-ending cycle, with each role fueling the others.

That’s where I am. Spinning like the Tasmanian Devil—kicking up dust and debris in the triangle, ricocheting against its hard edges. Building energy, whirling chaotically, thrashing, banging, clawing, kicking, hissing and screaming.

But from the outside, it is still? – like a top-of-the-line, tightly sealed pressure cooker, silent and composed but ready to burst.

Until, with no warning, the pressure erupts—spraying triangle shrapnel and Tasmanian Devil guts high, so high into the air, landing on our beautifully decorated table.?

The bird is dead.?Finally.

*****************

A few weeks ago, a conversation started on our family group text, aptly titled “My Wonderful Family.” It went like this:

Youngest daughter: “I don’t really like Thanksgiving food. Can we do something different this year?”

Oldest daughter: “Great idea. Let’s make lasagna!”

Husband: “Yes! Let’s make lasagna together.”

Youngest daughter again: “I’ve always wanted to bake bread. And I’ll make chocolate mousse too.”

It was almost as if they had rehearsed this, pregamed the conversation in the aptly named “Not Mom” text group.? I resisted the urge to insert myself in to the conversation by offering to make an healthy fresh salad.

But wait...Thanksgiving without turkey? Without my signature stuffing, mashed potatoes, or pies cooling on the counter? It was a shift—a departure from years of tradition and effort—but not surprisingly, it didn’t bother me.

It felt like soft relief. It wasn’t working.

It wasn’t working for them, who didn’t enjoy the food and mostly the vibe. It wasn’t working for me, who carried the self-imposed burden of pulling it all together with ease and style. It wasn’t working for any of us.

So, this year, we’re abandoning the turkey. They’re making lasagna, baking bread, and whipping up chocolate mousse. They’re planning the meal, cooking it, and serving it. And maybe, just maybe, the energy in our home will feel lighter—freed from expectations, tradition, and the rigid idea of what mom said Thanksgiving should be.

Because sometimes, when it isn’t working, the best thing you can do is let go. Let go of the dry turkey and the gravy that boils over. Let go of the triangle that holds tightly. Let go of the weight of perfection you’ve carried for so, so long.

This year, I’m learning that change doesn’t erase what came before. Those years of planning, effort, and tradition were meaningful, but they’ve run their course.

By abandoning the turkey, we’re not abandoning Thanksgiving—we are transforming it.