It’s that time of year again. Turkey time.

I am not one for most great American holidays. I’d rather spend the 4th of July in another country. And Thanksgiving, as a homage to the founders of this country pisses me off. Yeah you wanna celebrate the coming together of Natives and Europeans you fuckers, kiss my ass.

Except, every single holiday I had with my family as a child was horrible. My mother would turn what was supposed to be a happy gathering into a nightmare of pain for me. There was never a Christmas or Thanksgiving where I didn’t end up in tears, hiding in my bedroom and wishing I was dead. We won’t even go into how many years my birthday was either flat out forgotten or just plain ignored (I made myself a hot dog bun with grape jelly on it and a candle one year, just cause I knew I wasn’t getting cake).

When I became an adult, I tried to remedy that. First I started by hiding at a friend’s house. But a few years ago, right before I stopped speaking to my mother, I decided that I was going to make my own Thanksgiving. NO ONE was going to cry or feel the need to hide in their room. I have dinner late enough that friends who have family in town can eat their family meals at 2 or 3 or 5 and still make it to my civilized dinner time of 8. There would be booze and music and fabulous food and it would be a party. Because the one thing I am most thankful for in the world are the awesome friends I have that almost make up for my orphan status and I want them to have damn good time.

Then I met Ruth. We bonded over a college government class with THE MOST AWESOME INSTRUCTOR EVER! She has all these food allergies that make it impossible to cook for her (impossible- hah!) and at the time had a vegan hubby. So we have done Thanksgiving together for the last 4 years and I managed to learn how to make a giant dinner that the meat eaters, the vegans, the veggies, the celiacs, and anyone else who just can’t eat things because they will die can enjoy.

I love the challenge. I love that these people who spend so much of their lives trying to work around what everyone else is eating can just come into my house and know that they are safe. And then they can get to the real reason I cook, the ego stroking ohing and ahing and “Oh MY God this is the best thing I ever put in my mouth” sounds.

Carbfest (as Thanksgiving is called in my house) is a party. Someone once described it as the most beautiful, tasty food ever served by barefoot bohemians. I think that does it. I stress about the day. It’s expensive. It’s a lot of hard work. I worry every year that no one will show up (shhhh- I am not admitting to momentary bouts of self doubt). But no one has ever cried, or felt left out, or been treated unkindly during my holiday fete. That is miles away from my childhood.

So tomorrow I will be cooking up dinner for 15ish people, with more people coming for dessert and drinks after. Ruth and I are now roomies, so this is the first year that we will be cooking the whole thing together. She’s working the grill to make some damn fine roast veggies, Bernard is making oysters rockafeller, and I got a 22 pound turkey waiting to be soaked in a liter of wine.

No one will fight, no one will cry, no one will have to hide (unless they are just too drunk to deal with the barefoot bohemians). And when my kid grows up, family-ish holidays won’t be something to fear, but something fun and awesome to look forward to.

Cheers!