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Authors: Cindy Chupack
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we could
not
travel on the busiest travel day of the year.
But one year, still kidless, we were both on a strict diet, and we were trying to figure out how we would stay on that diet during Thanksgiving, and we finally broke with tradition like two crazy rebels and announced that we were staying in Los Angeles and cooking our own low-cal but delicious Thanksgiving dinner, for just the two of us.
Our families were disappointed, but they understood, because we were making a life together. People seem to respect that, especially people who have been waiting a long time for you to make a life with someone (and waiting even longer for you and that someone to make another life: a grandchild).
Ian cooked a pheasant instead of a turkey, and we made healthy side dishes that were steamed instead of mashed and marshmallowed, and I put mini-gourds in a bowl and tea lights on the table, and we enjoyed this small bird for two, this small feast for two, this small step toward creating independence as a couple.
And the next morning, when we opened the fridge, there were no leftovers to tempt us—no cold turkey, stuffing, yams, and cranberry sauce with which to make a 12,000-calorie sandwich . . . no leftover pumpkin pie to eat directly out of the tin until it was reduced to crumbs.
It was
bleak
.
What were we thinking? Thanksgiving happens once a year, and we had traded our corn bread for Wasa crackers? I wanted to cry. Ian wanted to eat.
We immediately fled to a nearby diner—this being Los Angeles, it was a restaurant in a strip mall made to look like a diner—and each had a turkey sandwich (dry) and slice of pumpkin pie (subpar) and vowed never to miss Thanksgiving again.
In fact, the following year we went to my sister’s house and enjoyed the highest-calorie, most delicious Thanksgiving meal ever. And Ian and I cooked, not only for ourselves, but for everyone, which was a surprise to my family because they didn’t know I could cook.
Frankly,
I
didn’t know I could cook until I met Ian (see next chapter), but for that transformation I blame the Williams-Sonoma catalog. Those individual soufflé ramekins, the pink mixer/pasta-maker combo, the meat slicer Ian insisted we have on our registry. Yes, we now own a meat slicer, so when I buy something like prosciutto at the deli, I have to say, “I don’t need it sliced, thank you; we have a meat slicer at home.” I might as well be saying “Just give me the whole cow please, the whole
live
cow; we want to make our own milk.”
I never thought I’d have a meat slicer.
I never thought I’d cook.
I never thought I’d be asked by a young midwestern birth mother, years later, if we’d be willing to celebrate Christmas, but since we had the decorations already . . .
I never thought I’d be asked if we’d be willing to celebrate Easter, too, but after five years of our own egg hunt trying to find one that would produce a child, Ian and I were almost willing to accept Jesus as our savior in order to complete our family. What’s a little chocolate, I thought? A few Peeps? Does Easter have to be about Jesus? I don’t remember seeing Jesus in the Williams-Sonoma
or
Pottery Barn Easter catalog.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It was still early in our relationship, and we were just getting cooking. . . .
Now We’re Cooking?
N ame your favorite four ingredients, and we’ll build a meal around them.” Ian proposed this challenge to our friend Kimberly early in our marriage.
I was dubious. Ian was good in the kitchen, but he was no Iron Chef, and I grew up thinking basic ingredients were Lipton onion soup mix, Fritos, French dressing, and Bisquick. I still have recipes from my sister that call for Dr. Pepper or root beer in things like briskets and cakes, but thanks to the great restaurants of New York, Los Angeles, and beyond (famous and hole-in-the-wall ethnic), I now know that green beans can exist outside of a casserole, that most people don’t even call
not
travel on the busiest travel day of the year.
But one year, still kidless, we were both on a strict diet, and we were trying to figure out how we would stay on that diet during Thanksgiving, and we finally broke with tradition like two crazy rebels and announced that we were staying in Los Angeles and cooking our own low-cal but delicious Thanksgiving dinner, for just the two of us.
Our families were disappointed, but they understood, because we were making a life together. People seem to respect that, especially people who have been waiting a long time for you to make a life with someone (and waiting even longer for you and that someone to make another life: a grandchild).
Ian cooked a pheasant instead of a turkey, and we made healthy side dishes that were steamed instead of mashed and marshmallowed, and I put mini-gourds in a bowl and tea lights on the table, and we enjoyed this small bird for two, this small feast for two, this small step toward creating independence as a couple.
And the next morning, when we opened the fridge, there were no leftovers to tempt us—no cold turkey, stuffing, yams, and cranberry sauce with which to make a 12,000-calorie sandwich . . . no leftover pumpkin pie to eat directly out of the tin until it was reduced to crumbs.
It was
bleak
.
What were we thinking? Thanksgiving happens once a year, and we had traded our corn bread for Wasa crackers? I wanted to cry. Ian wanted to eat.
We immediately fled to a nearby diner—this being Los Angeles, it was a restaurant in a strip mall made to look like a diner—and each had a turkey sandwich (dry) and slice of pumpkin pie (subpar) and vowed never to miss Thanksgiving again.
In fact, the following year we went to my sister’s house and enjoyed the highest-calorie, most delicious Thanksgiving meal ever. And Ian and I cooked, not only for ourselves, but for everyone, which was a surprise to my family because they didn’t know I could cook.
Frankly,
I
didn’t know I could cook until I met Ian (see next chapter), but for that transformation I blame the Williams-Sonoma catalog. Those individual soufflé ramekins, the pink mixer/pasta-maker combo, the meat slicer Ian insisted we have on our registry. Yes, we now own a meat slicer, so when I buy something like prosciutto at the deli, I have to say, “I don’t need it sliced, thank you; we have a meat slicer at home.” I might as well be saying “Just give me the whole cow please, the whole
live
cow; we want to make our own milk.”
I never thought I’d have a meat slicer.
I never thought I’d cook.
I never thought I’d be asked by a young midwestern birth mother, years later, if we’d be willing to celebrate Christmas, but since we had the decorations already . . .
I never thought I’d be asked if we’d be willing to celebrate Easter, too, but after five years of our own egg hunt trying to find one that would produce a child, Ian and I were almost willing to accept Jesus as our savior in order to complete our family. What’s a little chocolate, I thought? A few Peeps? Does Easter have to be about Jesus? I don’t remember seeing Jesus in the Williams-Sonoma
or
Pottery Barn Easter catalog.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It was still early in our relationship, and we were just getting cooking. . . .
Now We’re Cooking?
N ame your favorite four ingredients, and we’ll build a meal around them.” Ian proposed this challenge to our friend Kimberly early in our marriage.
I was dubious. Ian was good in the kitchen, but he was no Iron Chef, and I grew up thinking basic ingredients were Lipton onion soup mix, Fritos, French dressing, and Bisquick. I still have recipes from my sister that call for Dr. Pepper or root beer in things like briskets and cakes, but thanks to the great restaurants of New York, Los Angeles, and beyond (famous and hole-in-the-wall ethnic), I now know that green beans can exist outside of a casserole, that most people don’t even call
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