Thanksgiving can be really stressful. Nonna and Mommy and Daddy Lipstick traveled to Lipstick Manor for the holiday. I'm gonna admit right here before the Internet that I was scared to death. Even though I cleaned and I scrubbed and I planned and I prepared, I am here to tell you that I am no Mommy Lipstick, who is the Queen of Ambiance, the Doyenne of Coziness, the Maven of Homecoming.
Once I hosted
Candlelight and The Captain's Wife for a girl's weekend and I remembered to buy every celeb gossip mag the grocery store had to offer as well as liters of alcohol, but somehow I managed to forget to buy any toilet paper. Yep, I said toilet paper.
Nonna and Mommy Lipstick even brought all their giant serving dishes-the sort of dishes that I don't have because I have never hosted Thanksgiving before. I love the juxtaposition of this with the
LPC's very regal post about buying the perfect gravy boat for hosting her first Thanksgiving. I ended up with the perfect dishes too, but they were very Cinderella-ish. They were packed away and rode back home at the end of Thanksgiving. It was very klassy. Most graciously, Nonna and Mommy Lipstick didn't mind the inconvenience one bit.
On Thanksgiving morning, Nonna and Mommy Lipstick started cooking while Mr. Lipstick and I went to the grocery for a few last minute items. Oddly enough, we had fun. I think we were the only people laughing and joking and acting ridiculous. Grocery stores can be fun when you are unencumbered by a long list, tired feet, and grouchy kids.
We returned home and settled into a comfortable and noisy routine: Mr. Lipstick attempted to watch a movie with the help of closed captioning; Daddy Lipstick, JBB, and Pretty Girl had Disneyworld-caliber fun with Scotch tape, some markers, and a Styrofoam airplane; and we women-folk made the traditional Thanksgiving dinner in my not-so-Food-Network kitchen.
Before I knew it we were sitting at The Table-our table in Lipstick Manor-eating Thanksgiving dinner. We even said what we were thankful for at the very grown-up suggestion of JBB. It was comfortable and cozy and wonderful. I felt happy and content and complete. The day could only have been better if DeeDa had been there, but you can't always get what you want. After all, he is in heaven now, and I wouldn't wish the problems of earth on a resident of heaven. I suppose that Rolling Stones song is good for something.
After dinner, the merry-making triad of Daddy Lipstick, JBB, and Pretty Girl resumed their chaos. Nonna and I attempted to watch some football, but Mommy Lipstick (who could care less about football) decided that we needed to clean the oven. This is why Mommy Lipstick's house is immaculate. At all times.
She turned on the self-cleaning feature. The oven began to heat. The door locked. Steam began to emerge from the front of the oven. We eyed it with suspicion. "Is it supposed to do that?" "I think it heats up to something like 500 degrees." Smoke filled the kitchen.
Then...it all caught on fire. "SHIT!" I screamed, which, by the way, is what you want to scream in front of your parents and your children on Thanksgiving. Mommy Lipstick and I grabbed onto one another and we stared at the fire. Isn't that what all firefighters teach you in third grade? Just stare at a fire.
Then Mommy Lipstick frantically said, "Get Mr. Lipstick!". Mr. Lipstick sauntered in and confirmed that yes, during the self-cleaning feature, the oven drippings can ignite, but never fear, this whole process is not only self-limiting, it is also not unusual. He calmly opened a window and brought in a fan. JBB (aka Junior Mr. Lipstick) calmly asked, "Mommy, are you burning down the house?". Well, apparently not.
Faux kitchen trauma included, we had a raucously good time. We ate a lot and we laughed even more. Of course, it was all over entirely too soon. Today for lunch I ate leftovers out of one of those plastic Glad containers (which is probably not BPA-free) and tonight I watched the Saints run right over the Patriots. All that dressing and football made me miss Thanksgiving even more. I am so nostalgic that I may have to go set my oven on fire.